


Between Ruin and Salvation

by commas_and_ampersands



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Bloodplay, Breathplay, Dark, F/M, Gen, Gore, Minor Dean Thomas/Ginny Weasley, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-11 01:43:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 42,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17437508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commas_and_ampersands/pseuds/commas_and_ampersands
Summary: It was only one second.  One second where Remus took his eyes off Harry to stare at the rigid body of his last best friend falling through the veil.  One second where he heard James’s son too late, where he wasn’t fast enough to catch him.Then Harry ran through the veil.





	1. Prelude: Through the Veil

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2009 HP Summersmut Challenge on LJ.
> 
> Please heed the tags/warnings and let me know if I need to add any more! This story is deeply depressing. I genuinely don't write things like this anymore because my soul has grown fragile in my old age.

Harry saw Sirius duck Bellatrix’s jet of red light: He was laughing at her. “Come on, you can do better than that!” he yelled, his voice echoing around the cavernous room.  
  
The second jet of light hit him squarely in the chest.  
  
The laughter had not quite died from his face, but his eyes widened in shock.  
  
It seemed to take Sirius an age to fall. His body curved in a graceful arc as he sank backward through the ragged veil hanging from the arch….  
  
And Harry saw the look of mingled fear and surprise on his godfather’s wasted, once handsome face as he fell through the ancient doorway and disappeared through the veil, which fluttered for a moment as though in a high wind and then fell back into place.  
  
Harry heard Bellatrix Lestrange’s triumphant scream, but he knew it meant nothing – Sirius had only just fallen through the archway, he would reappear from the other side any second….  
  
But Sirius did not reappear.  
  
“SIRIUS!” Harry yelled. “SIRIUS!”  
  
He had reached the floor, his breath coming in searing gasps. Sirius must be just behind the curtain, he, Harry would pull him back out again….  
  


* * *

  
  
It was only one second.  
  
Momentarily without an opponent to duel, Remus turned to Sirius, as he always seemed to do ere long. He wanted to help of course, but part of him also wanted to know what Sirius was laughing about. What could possibly be so funny in this life or death situation?  
  
He saw Sirius take the spell directly in the chest and quickly registered the flash of fear in his face. At first, it made no sense. Bellatrix hadn’t hit him with anything more than a Stunning Spell.  
  
But then he saw where Sirius was falling, realized what Sirius already knew, and then he had reason to be afraid.  
  
“Sirius!” he shouted, his voice drowned out by the sounds of incantations and curses whizzing through the air. He darted forward, dodging the stray hexes and moving as fast as his legs could carry him. He ran, trying to be as fast as James had been when he was alive. As fast as Harry was now.  
  
He tried, but he didn’t make it. Sirius fell through the veil.  
  
Remus halted instantly, wincing at the sound of Bellatrix’s piercing laughter. He didn’t want to believe what he had seen, but he was unable to ignore what he knew. No one knew everything about the veil, but they knew enough. He knew that before the war, he would not have been able to hear the whispers, but now that he had fought, killed, and watched people die all around him, he heard slippery voices singing to him, beckoning him through. He knew the dead were many things, but chiefly, they were lonely.  
  
And he knew one more thing without any empirical evidence to back it up. He knew that when the dead took possession of something from the living world – something solid and warm and breathing – they would not let go. The dead were greedy too.  
  
So he knew that Sirius wasn’t coming back.  
  
“SIRIUS!”  
  
Remus snapped to attention. He hadn’t realized Harry had seen. He gnashed his teeth in frustration. Hadn’t the boy been through enough? Surviving his parents only to be pursued by a madman and plagued by death just for being born… did he have to watch Sirius die too?  
  
“SIRIUS!”  
  
Then he saw Harry start to run.  
  
Remus’s blood froze. Even as he went after Harry, he calculated the time it would take for him to close the gap between him and his former student. He factored in his old werewolf bones against Harry’s young boy ones. He thought of how much Harry loved Sirius, how Harry would blame himself for bringing the Order to the Ministry, how desperately Harry wanted a family after being so callously denied all these years.  
  
Remus tried to catch him. He tried to wrap his arms around Harry to hold him back. He tried to take comfort in the contact from the only other person in the world who really loved Sirius, the only one willing to forgive him for spending most of his life in Azkaban.  
  
He tried so hard.  
  
He reached for Harry, but his fingertips only brushed against the back of Harry’s sweater. His arms weren’t long enough, he wasn’t fast enough, he wasn’t good enough, he was too old, he was too slow, he wasn’t good enough, he wasn’t good enough,  _he wasn’t good enough_.  
  
Remus watched Harry run through the veil.  
  
“Harry!” Neville shouted, red blood smeared underneath his nose. “Harry, no!”  
  
Childishly, Remus wanted the world to stop. It seemed only fair that it should. They hadn’t just lost a boy, a child. They’d lost The-Boy-Who-Lived.  
  
But the world didn’t stop, not even for Harry Potter. It kept turning, the battle kept going, and no one except Neville and Remus knew what they had all lost.  
  
Then that cackle of snakes and broken glass tore at his ears, and Remus realized there was one other person who knew. He whirled to see Bellatrix, her once-proud eyes turned manic and depraved. She practically clutched her sides with glee. “He’s gone!” she shrieked, throwing her head back and exposing her pale throat. “Gone!”  
  
For once, Remus was sorry it wasn’t a full moon. He’d never wanted to bite someone more in his life.  
  
“Bellatrix!” he bellowed, brandishing his wand. He turned and ran towards her, sure of what he had to do.  
  
She hissed, flashing her teeth like a feral cat. She threw a curse at him before running off. Remus banked left, narrowly avoiding the hit and wincing when some debris from the resulting explosion pierced his shoulder. Still, he kept running, past Neville and his twitching legs, past the other children of the war, through the Department of Mysteries, and finally emerging in the main hall.  
  
Bellatrix was waiting for him, leaning against the fountain as if this was a casual meeting between friends.  
  
He snarled, holding up his wand, trying to decide between an Unforgivable or a foreign curse the British Ministry hadn’t made illegal only because they didn’t know about it yet.  
  
She laughed at him, and he tried not to remember the girl who’d been unpleasant to say the least and apallingly racist, but sane and not evil. He thought of James and Lily and Sirius and Harry and found this was easier than he thought.  
  
“It serves you right, filthy beast,” Bellatrix spat. “You took Sirius away from us. You and The-Potter-Who-Died. Turned him against his family – into a blood traitor who threw us away like used parchment!”  
  
“It was his choice,” Remus hissed, clinging to the old argument because he knew it was right. “He chose to leave you.”  
  
“You coerced him,” Bellatrix accused, her voice rising an octave. “You lured him to your side with your false friendships and empty promises. And where did that get him?”  
  
“You killed him!” Remus raged, squeezing his wand so tightly he feared it would break. “You killed him when you sent him through the veil. You don’t get to blame me for Azkaban after that! You had no right to before, and you have less right now!”  
  
Bellatrix just smiled. Her teeth glittered like the ice that followed in a Dementor’s wake.  
  
“I always kill the ones I love, Wolfie.”  
  
And then the battle began. Bellatrix struck with a Killing Curse, and Remus threw one in kind. Her Cruciatus hit, but pain meant nothing to a werewolf. He gave her a taste of his own agony with a Czech curse that broke bones and healed them again. A cutting hex left blood blooming on his chest. A Reductor blew up the House Elf in the fountain, and the rocks pummeled her face. Curse after curse, hex after hex they fought and grappled and neither made any headway. Bellatrix always won because her opponents pulled their punches. Remus would do her no such favors.  
  
Then he took a page from Harry.  
  
“ _Expelliarmus_!”  
  
Bellatrix’s wand went flying out of her hand, over her head, and into the waters of the fountain behind them. She stared at her empty fingers in shock, as if ignorant of the loss. Then she shrieked and ran at him, her nails like a basilisk’s teeth.  
  
Remus dropped his wand. He stood perfectly still as she rushed at him, howling madly into the dark hall. When she reached him, he pushed her hands away.  
  
He took her head in his hands and twisted it around until it snapped.  
  
That night, Bellatrix Lestrange died.  
  
The Death Eaters did not hear the prophecy.  
  
Voldemort appeared and fought with Dumbledore.  
  
Everyone finally realized that the Dark Lord was back.  
  
Lucius Malfoy and several other Death Eaters went to Azkaban, exposed for what they really were.  
  
And absolutely none of it mattered.  
  
Harry was gone.  
  


* * *

  
  
The room beyond the veil was not like Harry expected. It was windowless and without light, but despite this, he could see perfectly. He looked around and saw nothing but wall-to-wall grey, in different gradients and variations, but alwaysalwaysalways grey. And for that matter, it wasn’t so much wall-to-wall as curtain-to-curtain. This room (which he sensed was far larger than it appeared) was swathed in fabric similar to that which hung in the doorway in the Department of Mysteries. The edges all frayed in the same way and seemed to fade at the ends.  
  
Finally, he saw something that was not grey. He saw something that was black.  
  
“Sirius!” he shouted.  
  
The figure turned. Harry didn’t register the look on his face or the rage that flowed from the figure's lips like spilt wine - an anger Harry probably deserved. He didn’t register anything save that Sirius was moving and that meant that somehow, Bellatrix’s stunning spell had worn off.  
  
He hoped that meant the veil did not kill.  
  
He ran forward just as he had done in the Department of Mysteries, shouting his godfather’s name as he had done before. Then, heedless of any unseen witnesses or any mutual embarrassment between them, Harry threw his arms around Sirius’s too-thin waist and held on.   
  
Sirius was solid. Sirius was warm. Sirius’s chest rose and fell against Harry as he breathed.  
  
“You’re alive.”  
  
And that meant he was too.


	2. The Oncoming Storm

Three quarters of the castle was in mourning. Seventy-five percent of students had heard that not only was the Dark Lord back, yes, really back, but they’d lost the person they’d all secretly hoped would save them. Yes, Dumbledore was the one person Voldemort feared, but Harry Potter was the one who had  _survived_. Didn’t it stand to reason that he could keep surviving? Weren’t all of the encounters he lived through indications that he was meant to fight the Dark Lord to the bitter end? Isn’t that what the lost prophecy must have said? Isn’t that why Voldemort wanted Harry Potter dead?  
  
Isn’t that why the Slytherin dungeons were singing?  
  
Draco looked up from his vantage point by the common room’s roaring fireplace. Someone had enchanted the flames to burn silver and green in a show of house pride. After all, this was their triumph. With the loss of Harry Potter, the Muggle and Mudblood sympathizers had lost a figurehead more powerful than Dumbledore could ever hope to be. The proverbial shadow had fallen across the cause heralded by blood traitors, their victory no longer assured. No one had heard the prophecy, but they may as well have. People had been pinning their hopes on Potter since he was first marked as a baby. In some secret part of their hearts, they had hoped that Harry Potter would be the one to save them all, if only for the purposes of poetic justice.  
  
But Potter was gone. If the prophecy had indeed said that only Harry Potter could end the Dark Lord’s reign of terror, everyone knew it was now broken. And it was Voldemort crushing the glass beneath his boots.  
  
Draco wanted to be happy. He wanted to be drinking and laughing and celebrating right along with the rest of the Slytherins. He hated Potter.  _Hated_. No one should have been happier than him. No one deserved this more than him.  
  
But once again, Potter had thwarted him in the end and made it impossible for him to be happy. Draco found everything tasted bitter now that his father rotted in Azkaban.  
  
His friends weren’t callous of course. Pansy, Blaise (to an extent), and even Crabbe and Goyle had done their best to comfort him when they heard the news. But as good of friends as they were, they couldn’t completely suppress their excitement. So he’d told them he’d wanted to be alone. Even though they knew he was lying, they left him. This left Draco sitting next to the fireplace with its emerald-grey flames. He sat there, bearing witness to the revelry. He wondered if he could spot the pretenders if he stared long enough. After all, it didn’t stand to reason that  _every_  Slytherin was pleased to see Potter gone; but every Slytherin knew better than to advertise in such murky waters.  
  
Nevertheless, being surrounded by the drunken catcalls and wild shrieks, feigned or no, left Draco desperate to escape.  
  
Without a word to anyone, Draco strode out of the dungeons, drawing his cloak closer around his shoulders despite the unseasonal warmth. It was past curfew, but no one was much for enforcing the rules at the moment. All the professors were gathered in the Headmaster’s office to discuss what had happened. Granted, Filch would probably drown his sorrows in torturing students, but if the old bastard knew what was good for him, he’d steer clear of Slytherins tonight.  
  
He walked for the better part of an hour, and he met no one. Even the ghosts seemed to be in mourning – perhaps even Peeves among them. In truth, he wasn’t pleased to be left to his own devices. He hated being alone when he was upset. But there was no one at school who understood, and his mother lost a husband and a sister in one night. She had enough sorrows without having to comfort him as well. So he walked undisturbed until he reached the infirmary. That’s when someone saw him, and that someone spoke.  
  
“You’re depressed.”  
  
It wasn’t the tone or the voice that made him stop in his tracks so much as the choice of words. Not ‘you look depressed’ or ‘all right; you look sad.’ It scarcely sounded like a real sentence, such was its directness.  
  
He turned his head and caught sight of her hair first, glittering like tarnished silver in the darkness. Although she was only a few feet away, her eyes stared at him like twin moons gazing at him from afar. She’d curled up in one of the stone windows, her knees pulled up to her chest, and her skirt stretched thin over her knees.  
  
Draco scoffed. “Loony Lovegood. Should have known. Only you talk rubbish like that.”  
  
She blinked at him in a way that was downright unsettling. “I didn’t know you thought the truth was rubbish.”  
  
Draco felt his cheeks begin to burn. “Did I say that?” he demanded. “Or has your father published some way of reading minds?”  
  
“Not explicitly. You did imply it, however,” Luna answered softly. “As for psychic abilities,  _The Quibbler_  has published several articles reporting such phenomena, but we are not as of yet prepared to rule on its existence one way or the other.”  
  
Draco exhaled in a rush. “Talking to you is bloody exhausting.”  
  
“I’m sorry you find conversations with me to be especially taxing,” she murmured, and he swore she actually sounded like she meant it. “If I’d known, I might not have bothered you, but since we’ve never spoken before, I couldn’t have.”  
  
Draco opened his mouth as if to apologize, and then remembered who he was talking to and how insane this conversation was. He stalked closer to her, curling his hands into fists. “You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?”  
  
It seemed as though she should blink, and the very fact that she didn’t made his skin crawl. “Talking is a voluntary act, but I suspect that’s not what you mean.”  
  
“You’re baiting me!” he accused, spittle flying from his teeth. He felt rage winding around his chest like a worn blanket, and in spite of the unpleasant adrenaline, he felt comforted. Without Potter, there was no one to yell at, no one to blame for what had happened. Finding a new target, even if she was the token idiot in Ravenclaw, felt warm and familiar. “You did this on purpose just to… just to—"  
  
She tilted her head to the side, cornflower strands slipping over her shoulder like feathers tumbling out of a split down pillow. When she moved, at first he thought the stars were casting eerie shadows across her face. It took him a moment to realize they were bruises, and then for some reason, he couldn’t speak.  
  
Had his father done that?  
  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she told him, ignorant of his own uncertainties. Her distant tone grated, but there was something in her voice that was almost lyrical. “You’re not a fish, so I see no reason to bait you. If you’re suggesting that I purposefully chose to talk to you in order to upset you, you’re mistaken.”  
  
His fingers strained to hold their position, and his hands began to ache. “Then why talk to me at all? Don’t you blame me for what happened?”  
  
Luna Lovegood was notorious for being unreadable as well as insane, but Draco almost swore she seemed surprised. Then again, she always looked that way. “No. Why would I? You weren’t there.”  
  
“My family was there,” he reminded her bitterly. “My father and my… aunt.”  
  
“But you weren’t,” she repeated, swinging her legs around so that the dangled over the edge. She leaned forward, and she was so close that he could see the healing cut on her lip. He wondered if all crazy people held such little regard for personal space. “I could be angry with you, I suppose… for supporting Umbridge and being on the Inquisitorial Squad. You were very cruel, and you abused your power. But it’s not as if Dumbledore’s Army didn’t expect you to.”  
  
The lower lid of Draco’s left eye started to twitch.  
  
“But I don’t see why I ought to be upset with you over what happened with Harry.” For the first time, Luna’s face was an open book. Draco would not have mistaken her sadness for any other emotion. There was something broken in her eyes, and she reminded him inexplicably of a shattered mirror. If it hadn’t been about Potter, he might have felt a little sorry for her. “You’re not your family.”  
  
The statement was so absurd he wanted to laugh. His name was Draco Malfoy. Of course he was his family. Family had to stick together, always. No one except Purebloods understood that, and although Luna might have had two magical parents, that didn’t make her like him.  
  
He jumped when her hand fell on his shoulder, light as air and the color of cobwebs.  
  
“Besides, I heard what happened to them. I am sorry for your loss, even if I didn’t much care for either of them.”  
  
He scowled, a thousand acidic insults waiting on his tongue to burn her. He wanted to scorn her pity. He wanted to tell her that he wasn’t sorry she’d gotten hurt since she was stupid enough to go fight in the first place. He wanted to tell her he was glad her precious Potter was gone, probably dead, and she was an idiot to mourn him.  
  
But everything she said to him had been devoid of pity. Saying that he didn’t care she was hurt wasn’t the whole truth, since he did wonder who had hurt her. And though he’d never admit it aloud, there was a very small part of him that hated Potter for being gone.  
  
It wasn’t fair that Draco couldn’t hurt him anymore, but Potter had left him in agony.  
  
Draco shook off Luna’s hand. It fell to her side like a puppet with the strings cut.  
  
“What does it matter what you think?” he spat, turning on his heel. “You’re mental anyway.”  
  
“If it didn’t matter what I thought, why did you ask?”  
  
Draco didn’t answer. He simply kept walking, blood heating every inch of his skin and hands trembling from strain. He left her sitting in the window, her legs hanging toward the ground, and the memory of her voice floating after him down the corridor.  
  


* * *

  
Once she was released from the hospital wing several days after the battle, Hermione had stridden out of the infirmary without so much as a ‘by your leave.’ Ron was let out soon after, and when he was free, all he wanted was to find Hermione. He wanted Hermione, who would assure him that there was no evidence Harry was  _gone_ -gone, that he was probably just missing-gone. He wanted Hermione to rationalize that no respectable government would have a ruddy archway of death hanging about without at least some sort of sign. But most of all, he wanted Hermione, the only best friend he had left.  
  
He thought about going to the common room, to Hagrid’s hut, or to the kitchens to find her, but he knew Hermione too well to even waste time investigating. With scarcely a breath’s hesitation, Ron took a right instead of a left out of the medical wing and walked through the cool, empty halls until he reached the library.  
  
He was not surprised to find Hermione there. He was also not surprised to see that she’d already managed to find twenty volumes to look through. She didn’t even look up when he entered, sensing his presence.  
  
“Good,” she said, her crisp voice stressed to the point of nearly breaking. “You’re here. I can’t read all of these myself. Well, I could, obviously, but it would take far too long. I’ve spent enough time laid up, and this project calls for efficiency above all else.”  
  
It felt like there was a stone lodged in his throat. He tried to swallow and managed to make it grow larger. “Hermione, you don’t have to do this right now.”  
  
“When would you suggest I do it, Ron? We’re not going to be at school for much longer, you know, and then we won’t have access to these materials.” She wrinkled her nose that way she always did when she had a sudden thought. “Perhaps I could petition Professor Dumbledore to let us stay. After all, if we’re going to get Harry back, we’ll need all the help we can get.” She paused to roll her eyes. “Honestly, he’s utterly impossible. Of all the irresponsible things to do – charging through without even considering what he was getting himself into. It’s so… like him that I could just scream.”  
  
In spite of growing up in a large, affectionate family, Ron had never really gotten comfortable with the idea of hugging people who were not red-haired, freckled, and named Something-or-Other Weasley. For that matter, there were people in his family he’d never gotten comfortable with hugging, although that was really only limited to Percy, the git. So he thought about hugging Hermione then, wondering if maybe she also needed someone to tell her that it was all right, that Harry was fine, that they’d get him back. He thought about it, but his hands hung heavy at his sides.  
  
“Hermione…."  
  
“Oh,” she said, staccato – a plucked violin string. “Of course, you don’t have to stay, Ron. I only assumed—"  
  
Ron sighed. “Don’t be thick, Hermione. If you need help… I’ll stay.”  
  
For the first time since he’d walked in, Hermione actually looked at him. It was only for a moment, but then he saw her raw, as if her skin had been peeled away. He saw the red-rimmed eyes and the drying tear tracks. He saw the lines around her mouth, the width of her smile, the tightness of her jaw. He saw her desperation and her sadness and her depthless gratitude that he too believed in Harry without question, that he would help her without hesitation, that together, they had the power to bring him home.  
  
“Thank you, Ron.”  
  
“Yeah, well,” he muttered, pulling a chair back and selecting the least daunting of the assembled tomes. “What are friends for?”  
  
In the same breath, they both began to read. She reached over and grabbed his hand with frightening intensity. And he squeezed right back until his knuckles flushed pale and it hurt them both to keep holding on.  
  
They did not let go.  
  


* * *

  
After leaving her in front of the infirmary, Draco assumed he would not have to deal with Luna Lovegood anymore in the near future. This expectation prevailed as he boarded the Hogwarts Express to return to a home and an outside world irrevocably damaged by what had happened at the Department of Mysteries. It continued when he stowed his bags, when he boarded, and when he began to look for a seat. Unlike the ride to Hogwarts, there seemed to be no need for Prefects to sit together on the way back, and besides, no one was much for House Unity these days.  
  
Blaise, Pansy, Crabbe, and Goyle were all in a compartment together. They invited him in, but he still couldn’t stand the looks in their eyes. They were torn between sympathy and elation, between their victory and his father’s downfall. He couldn’t stand it. It was too close to feeling sorry for him, and still too false besides. He said he’d find a different car.  
  
He walked up and down the train, eyes flitting through the cracks between the doors and the foggy windows. He heard them all whispering and wondered if they were talking about him. He heard muffled tears and knew they were not crying about him. In the end, he went to find a compartment of his own. He thought he found one at the very end of the train, and, breathing a sigh of relief, he flung the doors open.  
  
And his expectation that he would not have to see Luna Lovegood soared away.  
  
She glanced up at him from the ever-present inverted  _Quibbler_. “Hello, Draco.”  
  
The innocuous greeting was enough to set his teeth on edge. He quickly flipped through his alternatives to sitting with Lovegood. He had a choice between feigned Slytherin sympathy or obvious hatred from any of the other houses. It seemed impossible, but apparently, Luna Lovegood was the preferable option.  
  
He swore by way of greeting and stepped inside, slamming the doors into place. He sat in the opposite corner, glaring. “Don’t talk to me.”  
  
She nodded amicably enough and returned to her ridiculous rag that dared to call itself a newspaper. He leaned back, folded his arms and settled himself in for a long, silent trip back home.  
  
The problem naturally arose when Draco remembered how very much he hated prolonged quiet. When he’d been a boy, his mother sometimes left him on his own for long periods of time, not because she was an inattentive parent, but because she couldn’t put up with the incessant chatter. He’d taken to engaging Dobby in conversation out of desperation. That is, until his father made him stop.  
  
The proud face of his father filled his mind at once, though he tried to shut it out. He superimposed this picture with the man Lucius Malfoy would undoubtedly become in Azkaban – filthy, defeated, and crushed beneath a whispered prophecy.  
  
This of course was why Draco couldn’t abide silence. It left him with too much opportunity to think.  
  
“What are you doing here then?” Draco grumbled. “Oughtn’t you be with the Weasels and Granger and Fatbottom?”  
  
She didn’t look up from the upside down paper. “It’s not nice to call them that.”  
  
“I’m not nice.”  
  
She shrugged as if she didn’t see what that had to do with it. “I’m not sitting with Hermione and Ron because they aren’t going home just yet. They asked Professor Dumbledore if they could stay on at Hogwarts to see what can be done about Harry.”  
  
Draco’s molars ground against each other. Potter. It always came back to Potter. He rather suspected that had Potter never been attacked by the Dark Lord, the green-eyed ponce still would have been at the center of everything. That would just be his luck. Although his parents had made a point of telling him that he was not the center of the universe, he doubted Potter’s Muggles had ever done so. They’d probably always known Earth and sun revolved around the Potter scion and left well enough alone.  
  
“As for Ginny and Neville,” Luna continued, either ignoring or remaining ignorant of his frustration, “she’s having a bad time of it. She loves Harry, you know.”  
  
Draco just scowled.  
  
“Oh, yes of course you do,” Luna recalled in lilting soprano. “You made up that song during my first year. You said Harry had the eyes of a toad. Clever rhyme.”  
  
In any other circumstance, Draco would have appreciated the compliment, even if it did come from a madwoman. “What does that have to do with you being on your own?”  
  
Now Luna looked up, globular eyes fervent. “I’d be happy to help Ginny. She’s my friend.”  
  
It was truly pathetic how she made that sound. It was not the offhand comment others would have favored. She made it sound like being friends with the Weasley girl was some sort of badge of honor, an achievement equal to receiving all O’s in one’s O.W.L.S. At first, he marveled at her bad taste, and then remembered that people weren’t exactly lining up to be mates with a crazy Ravenclaw.  
  
“But?”  
  
Luna continued to meet his gaze head on. “Ginny’s not the sort who does well getting help from other girls. She’s much better with the boys.”  
  
Draco refrained from comment only because it seemed entirely too easy.  
  
“So she’s with Neville,” Luna concluded. “I’d have expected her to go to Michael Corner since she was going with him, but she chucked him as soon as Madame Pomfrey let her out of the infirmary. She said it had to do with him being bitter about Ravenclaw losing at Quidditch, but really she’s just too tired to pretend she likes him when she’s still in love with Harry.”  
  
Draco stared. He knew of Luna’s legendary frankness, but this seemed to go beyond that. “Should you really be telling me this?”  
  
“I don’t see why not. I’d keep it a secret, but it’s not really a secret, is it? Everyone knows.”  
  
Draco wanted to say that just because everyone knew something didn’t mean it was right to go shouting it all over the place.  
  
“And you?” she asked.  
  
“Hm?”  
  
“Why are you by yourself?”  
  
He folded his arms in front of his chest. “I don’t want to talk about it.”  
  
“Oh.” She narrowed her eyes. “Odd that you asked me then, since it seems only natural that I’d turn the question back to you.”  
  
Draco began to very seriously consider stabbing himself in the eye with his wand. Surely that would hurt less. “I don’t need the rules of polite conversation thrown in my face by you of all people, Loony.”  
  
Granted, it hadn’t been the  _crème de la crème_  of insults, but he would have at least expected some reaction from her. Her facial expression didn’t change at all. He found himself postulating that in one of  _The Quibbler_ ’s back issues, Luna was featured as a girl who’s face really had frozen into one expression.  
  
“If you’re sure you don’t want to talk about it—"  
  
“I’m sure.”  
  
“—then I suppose I can come up with something else to ask.” She set aside the magazine and tipped her head to the side. Her face floated in front of the window, and the light pouring in from the window as they zipped across the countryside provided a golden backlight that left her eyes almost completely in shadow. It made looking at her bearable now that he didn’t have to look at those eyes, but unsettled him in another way. It seemed like he was staring into the hollows of a skull.  
  
The skull asked, “Do you miss him?”  
  
He raised an eyebrow. “My father? Of course I miss him. What kind of question is that?”  
  
Luna gave him a strange little smile. “That’s not who I meant, and I think you knew that.”  
  
His fingers strained against the leather seats as they began to curl into fists. “I. Do. Not. Miss. Potter.”  
  
“The adamant tone of your statement leads me to believe otherwise.”  
  
He started to leap to his feet, but the train made a sudden right turn, and he tumbled right back into the seat again. Draco settled for baring his teeth and hissing, “I  _hate_  Potter. In what ways have I not made this glaringly obvious, because I will do my best to remedy them.”  
  
She tented her fingers and looked like a mediwitch specializing in mental patients. He nearly choked on the irony. “You must admit, Draco, you are rather obsessed with him.”  
  
If she weren’t a girl, he may have punched her. “You bloody well better take that back—"  
  
“I didn’t mean to suggest anything sordid,” she said in a shallow attempt at placating him. “Cho’s been spreading some rumors, but she’s not in a good place right now. I only meant that you seem to single him out quite a bit.”  
  
Draco nearly asked for a detailed account of these rumors Luna referenced, but he decided it would be better for his emotional state if he didn’t. So he said, “Because he’s a git, and I seem to be the only person in the universe who realizes it.”  
  
“Actually,” she said in a strangely bright tone, “I know a few people in my house who don’t like him much either, after what happened with Cho. You don’t like Hermione either, do you? You’d be surprised how many Ravenclaws take it personally that everyone says she’s the cleverest witch of your year. Since she’s a Gryffindor I mean. I could introduce you if you like.”  
  
A wand in the eye was looking more and more spectacular by comparison. “Obviously, I was exaggerating, but the fact remains that Potter’s always getting special treatment! No First Year’s allowed to have a broom, but bloody McGonagall gives one to him sweet as you please and doesn’t even bother to hide who it was from. And then people have the gall to call her fair and unbiased. Of course she’s biased, to her house and to Potter.”  
  
Luna raised an eyebrow. “You hate him because of a broomstick?”  
  
Draco drove his hands into his hair and gave it a good yank. “It was just an example! That sort of rubbish is always happening to him. He breaks the rules, and everyone treats him like a sodding hero just because of something that happened when he was a baby.”  
  
“That’s not the only reason people like Harry,” Luna said smoothly. “He was nice to me. Not very many people are nice to me.”  
  
“I wonder why,” Draco drawled.  
  
“You’re taking this very personally,” Luna pointed out. “And I think it’s mostly because you don’t want to admit that I’m right.”  
  
Draco trembled with the urge it took not to do something drastic. “You’re mental.”  
  
“I think you miss him,” she repeated. “Not because you like him, but because he’s always been there. He’s been someone you could be angry at and a rival to compete with. I’m not saying your life begins and ends with Harry, but a significant part of it has been devoted to trying to make him miserable or trying to beat him. Now that he’s gone, you’re not sure what you’re meant to do with your life.”  
  
Finally, something inside of him snapped, and later, he would surely marvel that it hadn’t happened sooner. Draco leapt to his feet and reached for her, though he stumbled backwards as the train shook beneath him. He struggled to hold himself upright in addition to holding himself away from her. He wouldn’t hit her, but he wanted to shake her until that damned dreamy look went out of her eyes forever. All he wanted was for her to stop looking at him, to stop talking to him, to stop bringing a dead boy back into his life.  
  
“Don’t you ever tell me about Harry Potter,” Draco snarled. “You have no idea what he and his friends have done. Do you know they almost killed Montague when they shoved him in that cabinet? Didn’t even bother to tell anyone what they’d done! He nearly starved to death, and they laughed about it!”  
  
She had the grace to appear disturbed, or as disturbed as she could appear. “That’s terrible.”  
  
“And everyone treats him like a hero,” he went on. “He’s practically a god to them, and he has his own saints with Weasley and Granger and Longbottom and  _you_! St. Luna the Loony. But don’t for a minute think that you were worth anything to him. As far as Potter was concerned, you were someone to stand in front of him in case my father’s aim was off.”  
  
Luna narrowed her eyes, and he began to think he could make her angry after all. “That’s not true. Harry helped us; he taught us spells we never would have learnt even without Umbridge. He’s prepared us for—"  
  
“For what? For war?” Draco shouted. “Oh, yes. Potter trained his little toy soldiers well, but you just remember three things, Loony: Potter was the general of Dumbledore’s Army, and the general never rides off with the cavalry.”  
  
He spun on his heel and began to make his way out of the cabin. He could endure Pansy and the others with this as the alternative. He’d been stupid to entertain the idea. He’d forgotten that these people were no longer schoolmates. They were enemies.  
  
“And the third thing?” she asked, daring him with the steel in her voice.  
  
Draco paused in the open doorway and hoped his last words cracked her armor.  
  
“He trained you to kill people like me.”  
  


* * *

  
Harry held on to Sirius for as long as he dared, basking in his presence and realness, something he had been so terrified that he’d lost for good. He felt stubble rub against his forehead. He smelled the faint cologne of alcohol and the musk of battle. He stayed connected for as long as he dared and then longer, until Sirius pushed him away.  
  
“You shouldn’t have come here,” Sirius murmured. “It’s not safe. What if—”  
  
“You didn’t come back,” Harry said, a little amazed at Sirius. This didn’t sound like him. But then, perhaps Sirius was only willing to let Harry rush in where he himself had trod before. The veil was a mystery to all. “I couldn’t leave you,” Harry muttered with intensity, attempting to quash these uncertainties.  
  
Sirius sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Molly’s going to slaughter me when we get back. She’ll say it’s my fault you went charging in half-cocked.”  
  
Harry pointed out, “You didn’t drag me.”  
  
Sirius snorted. “Tell that to Molly.” He looked around the new grey world, at the dark shadowy blurs that passed them by without a second glance. They both stood in silence for a moment, listening to the whispers that had almost led Harry through the veil when he first saw it. “So. This is what’s on the other side of the veil.”  
  
Harry blinked. “You know where we are?” He’d wondered how aware Sirius had been of his surroundings before he’d tumbled through. Apparently, despite the Stunning Spell, he’d known plenty.  
  
“Couldn’t point it out on a map,” Sirius muttered ruefully, misunderstanding Harry’s implication. “And no one really knows what’s beyond the veil. Except us I suppose.” He smirked, chuckling. “Remus is going to be out of his mind with jealousy when I tell him about this. This is an academic’s dream.”  
  
“No one’s gone through before?”  
  
“Not as far as I know,” Sirius said. “Then again, I was gone for a few years, so something may have changed, but I doubt it. The veil sparks… a certain amount of fear.”  
  
Harry didn’t remember being afraid. Just the overwhelming desire to follow the voices. Harry wondered for a moment if Sirius had been afraid, but he knew better than to ask. He had a feeling he wouldn’t like the answer, no matter what it was.  
  
“How do you suppose we get out?”  
  


* * *

  
The full moon was coming around again for the first time since the loss of Harry and Sirius. Part of Remus wanted to forgo his newfound custom of taking the Wolfsbane Potion. He wouldn’t have minded unleashing the full savagery and brutality of the werewolf. He wanted violence, wanted to rip and tear, wanted to embrace the very aspects of the wolf he usually loathed. But he wasn’t young anymore, and neither Dumbledore nor Severus believed that his body could handle the transformation without the potion and remain in fighting condition.  
  
He tried not to speculate about the possibility that they feared for his sanity as well.  
  
“Lupin,” Snape said, bringing Remus out of his reverie with that ever-present sneer. “I understand that you’re distraught about the loss of your little pet mongrel, but I do have more to do with my life than sit here and watch you mope in front of your potion. Drink.”  
  
Remus ignored the instruction, momentarily losing himself in the sound of words Sirius Black would never say.  _‘Really, Snivellus? Have an important engagement with your right hand and a bottle of lotion, do you? Well, by all means, don’t let us keep you.’_  
  
“Oh, God,” Snape spat, falling into one of Remus’s kitchen chairs. They both winced at the loud creak. “I’m going to have to console you, aren’t I?”  
  
Remus took a very deep breath. “I’m hardly swooning, Severus.”  
  
“I’m not to leave until you drink every last drop of that. Dumbledore’s orders,” Snape reminded him. “Since you’re apparently too depressed to even do that much, it is apparently up to me to remedy the situation.”  
  
Remus snorted. “You want to cheer me up?”  
  
“I will not debase myself in answering that question.”  
  
Remus heaved a sigh and dragged a hand across his face, surprised to find how pronounced his stubble had become. Body hair always became a bit of nuisance closer to the full moon. “Then don’t embarrass us both by trying. Others have come and gone before you.”  
  
“Yes, I’ve heard about you spurning Nymphadora’s advances already,” Snape said with a pronounced eye roll.  
  
Remus did not know if his being the subject of the Order’s gossip or the fact that he was blushing like a ruddy schoolgirl was more humiliating. “How did you—"  
  
“Molly Weasley is telling anything with a pulse, I suspect,” Snape interrupted. “Can we please not prolong this agony any more than necessary? The way I see it, there are very few people to whom you can actually speak who will offer up more than ceremonial niceties. We both know there is absolutely no danger in hearing that drivel from me. Considering Dumbledore is the only other man I can think of who will be of any use to you, and he is otherwise occupied, I’m afraid your options are severely limited. Either talk or prepare for me to pour that potion down your throat.”  
  
Remus knew Snape better than to take this as an idle threat. He inclined his head until his forehead rested in his open palm. “It’s my fault.”  
  
“I suspect a great many things are, Lupin. You’ll have to be more specific.”  
  
“Harry and Sirius,” Remus snapped. “Please don’t pretend to be dull just to make this more difficult.”  
  
“Oh, that,” Snape said, as if Remus grieved over the misplacement of a grocery list and not the possible death of his best friend and James’s only son. “Of course that’s your fault.”  
  
Remus glowered. “How is that supposed to make me feel better?”  
  
Snape scoffed. “Did you honestly expect that from me? You got comforting and coddling from the others. You obviously didn’t want that if you plotted to keep me here for this excruciating conversation.”  
  
Remus kicked the underside of the table. “Damn it, Severus!”  
  
“Channeling Black from the grave, are we?”  
  
“You don’t know that he’s dead!” Remus shouted. He quickly bit his tongue and did his best to dial back his anger. He was always more prone to violence when the moon grew fuller. Between that and his emotional state, he couldn’t be certain that he could control his temper. “He was only hit with a Stunning Spell.”  
  
Snape smirked. “Yes, I suppose the only confirmed fatality from that evening is Bellatrix.”  
  
“Are you sorry for it?”  
  
“Of course not,” Snape remarked coolly. “I remember her from school and the years following. She was insane and dangerous then, and I’m certain prison only made her worse. I do not mourn her in the least.”  
  
Remus folded his hands in front of his heart, offering up his next statement as a prayer as well as a rebuttal. “They could still be alive.”  
  
Snape frowned, and if Remus squinted, he could almost detect some sadness in the man’s eyes beneath the ever present resentment. “I doubt it.”  
  
“We don’t know how the veil works.”  
  
“It’s a gateway to the world of the dead. Even if they went through whole and breathing, I doubt there’s water and nourishment on the other side. Maybe not even oxygen.”  
  
The idea of Harry and Sirius slowly starving to death, or worse, suffocating and gasping for absent air made Remus’s stomach turn. “But we don’t know—"  
  
“We don’t know if Voldemort has a secret love for kitten stationary, but I rather doubt we can put much stock in this theory.” Snape sighed. “I realize that you must believe that there is hope for their survival so that you are not eaten alive by guilt. By all means, continue. I don’t particularly care for your emotional well-being, but you’re of no use to the Order in such a state. However, do not turn to me for confirmation of these suspicions. As I said before, there are others for that.”  
  
But Remus didn’t want them to tell him that Harry and Sirius were okay. He wanted Snape. The man may have been an insufferable bastard, but he was a brilliant insufferable bastard. If Snape had even admitted there was a possibility, the hope would have sustained Remus indefinitely. Now what was there?  
  
“Maybe they can get out,” he whispered.  
  
Snape began to look very tired. “Lupin, if they could, they would have done.”  
  
“Hermione is researching. Maybe she can find something.”  
  
“I will acquiesce to Ms. Granger’s superior intellect insofar as her outshining her deplorably idiotic peers, but if you are seriously hinging your expectations on a teenager, I fear for your sanity.”  
  
“Maybe—"  
  
“ _Remus!_ ”  
  
The use of his given name, something Snape had avoided since long before the Willow Incident, could not be ignored.  
  
“Stop it,” Snape spat, his black eyes blazing with fury. “Do you think you are the only one who wishes things had gone differently? You know I thought Black was better off dead, but Potter… he’s too much like his father: pigheaded, foolhardy, and utterly determined to believe that he was the wizarding world’s own personal Jesus Christ. But I knew he was important. I knew what he was meant to do.” He began to shake with intensity. “You have no idea what I have I done for that boy, no idea what I risked…. I, more than anyone, wish that you had caught him before he ran through, and if you knew me better, you would not dare to argue otherwise. But I will not delude myself into thinking that he’ll come riding back to save us. Better to accept that he is dead and gone and find a way to defeat Voldemort without the Boy-Who-Lived.”  
  
Remus looked at Snape coldly, and grasped the goblet containing the Wolfsbane Potion. He downed the horrible concoction in one gulp. “You can go now.”  
  
Snape didn’t have to be told twice.


	3. Sixth Year

Draco emerged from Borgin and Burkes, chin erect and back straight. On his journey from one magical alley into the next, Draco decided he could spend a few more moments away from his mother. Perhaps he’d stop at Fortescue’s and get himself a little treat. He’d certainly earned it.  
  
He’d just threatened a man, not that making threats was anything new. He’d spent the majority of his boyhood sneering at Potter and his little tagalongs, pretending to be so much bigger than he was. And of course he felt that way with Crabbe and Goyle flanking him, the two of them forever at his back. A little lip from the offending party, and all either would have to do is glare or crack their knuckles and suddenly everything would be going his way again. It was easy to manipulate people when they were afraid of you, or more specifically, of your friends.  
  
Well, Draco certainly had more standing behind him than the bulk of Crabbe and Goyle now, didn’t he? He had an entire battalion of Death Eaters behind him. All he’d had to do was mention Greyback’s name, and people fell all over themselves to do as he liked. Then again, werewolves did have a tendency to strike a certain amount of fear in people, and Fenrir Greyback was far more frightening than Remus Lupin could ever hope to be.  
  
Better still, he had the power of the bloody Dark Lord, who had come to the Manor just to give him a job to do. An important job. A job that would certainly vault his father’s status back into the stratosphere once he’d accomplished it.  
  
His mother hadn’t been too happy about it. She’d made quite the scene once the Dark Lord had gone. A crystal decanter Draco had always been fond of became a casualty of the argument that followed. She’d told him he was too young, too naïve to understand.  
  
He scoffed, shoving his hands into his pockets. She was the one who didn’t understand. She’d always sympathized with his father’s views, but she’d never actually done anything about it. Narcissa Malfoy had once been known in Death Eater circles as the epitome of a society wife. She’d been important for establishing connections and for entertaining, but what could she do with their father in prison and in such bad standing? Draco was the first to admit that his mother was brilliant, but there was no wizard or witch powerful to make something out of nothing.  
  
And nothing was all the Malfoys had. Perhaps if Bellatrix had lived, if that white crow werewolf hadn’t laid his hands on her and twisted her head around, they could have managed without Draco getting involved. But without a patriarch to lead them and without an aunt to curry Voldemort’s favor, Narcissa’s more subtle influences were of no use. Someone had to do the work. Someone had to be on the front lines. And that someone needed to be Draco.  
  
Not that Draco minded. For years, he’d dreamed of helping his father politically, and after the Triwizard Tournament, Draco had been elated. Everyone else had been sorry that Diggory was dead, but Draco felt tickled that Voldemort had returned and that one day, when he was old enough, he would be able to join him. While everyone else mourned the future Cedric Diggory would never get, Draco celebrated the future he was ready to sink his teeth into.  
  
True, Cedric hadn’t deserved it, but Draco understood that Diggory had been a necessary fatality. The Dark Lord had needed to keep his resurrection a secret, and Diggory could have exposed him had he lived and helped Potter get away. Of course, it turned out Potter didn’t need help, slippery little sod that he was. Still, the fact remained that Diggory’s death had been a vital expenditure, and not one that made Draco all that sorry. It wasn’t as if Draco had known him. Besides, did the world really need another Hufflepuff running about?  
  
No, what the world needed was people like him. People willing to do what was right for honor and for family, for preserving tradition and keeping the wizarding world safe from Muggles who had only ever wanted to destroy it. It was amazing that wizards never learned from their histories. How many witches and wizards had survived burning in the trials of old that swept Europe, only to be drowned or strangled or worse? True, countless Muggles had gone up in smoke as well, but every once in awhile, the hunters got it right.  
  
That was all the proof Draco needed. It was best for their kind to keep to themselves. Marrying out, producing half-bloods, and worse still, allowing Muggle families entrance into their society just because of a fluke of nature was reckless and put them all at risk.  
  
Draco would do what he must to keep his family safe. He’d protect them all from the Muggles and Mudbloods of the world. He’d get his father out of jail. He’d see his mother smile again. He’d fulfill his mission for the Dark Lord. He would do all of this, and then his mother would see how wrong she had been to call him foolish.  
  
Finally, Draco finished the familiar walk to Fortescue’s. He smiled to himself, going over ice cream flavors to see which he would prefer. Then he looked up and came to a grinding halt.  
  
The shop was completely deserted. Not only that, but it was sealed off. He immediately recognized the red lights in front of the door and the notice from the Auror forces warning people away. This was a crime scene. He stepped forward, wondering if he could get a closer look.  
  
“It’s sad that they took him, isn’t it?”  
  
Draco cringed and found himself marveling at his terrible luck. First thwarted out of a little reward for a job well done, and now he was running into  _her_  of all people? Again? He certainly hoped this would not be indicative of the rest of his year.  
  
He looked over his shoulder, shooting a stern glare at Luna Lovegood’s wide grey eyes floating just underneath bangs trimmed too short. “Have you cast some sort of tracking spell on me, because I must say, this is becoming ridiculous.”  
  
She shook her head and plucked at her sleeves. Draco noticed she was wearing Muggle clothes and curled his lips in disgust. She was practically painting a target on her back. “I wouldn’t cast a tracking spell on you unless I needed to find you.”  
  
“You have an unenviable talent of stating the obvious, Luna,” he drawled.  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“It wasn’t a—oh, nevermind.” Not even ten seconds, and she was already giving him a headache. Brilliant. “Didn’t I threaten you the last time I saw you? I’d think that would be a fairly good indication that you ought to keep your distance.”  
  
Luna clasped her hands behind her back and walked forward to stand beside him. He hadn’t ever really paid attention before, but she always seemed on the verge of skipping. Considering her unpopularity, he had no idea what she had to be so bloody happy about. “You did threaten me, and logically, that’s very true.”  
  
He expected her to continue, but as always with her, his expectations were not met. “Then why are you talking to me?”  
  
“Well, to begin with, I find it highly unlikely that you’d attempt to attack me in the middle of Diagon Alley. Especially not when it’s this busy with people gathering what they need for school.  
  
“Besides, I don’t think you’d hurt me.”  
  
Draco let out a loud bark of laughter, attracting the attention of several other shoppers passing them by. Luna seemed to barely register his reaction. “How wrong you are.”  
  
“I don’t think I am,” she said, oblivious as ever. “I’m a very good judge of character. So I believe you won’t hurt me.”  
  
“I’ve hurt people before,” he reminded her with acid in his voice. “I hurt a lot of people when I was on the Inquisitorial Squad.”  
  
She nodded in agreement. “Well, it’s certainly a mistake placing you in a position of authority. You’re bound to abuse it.”  
  
He wished he could muster up the effort to be offended, but it wasn’t as though he could deny it. “Isn’t that the sort of person you ought to be careful of?”  
  
“Only when they’re in power.” She turned to face him, staring at him with those eyes that never really zeroed in. When he looked at her, he always wondered if she saw his insides or if she saw nothing at all, if he was just as invisible as those creatures she claimed hovered in all the corners of the castle. “You have no power over me, Draco Malfoy.”  
  
He shivered. Something about that disturbed him very deeply. He wanted to say that it was just the fact that no one else would ever dream of saying these things, but he couldn’t be sure. “I pity anyone who would try to,” he muttered dispassionately.  
  
She seemed inordinately pleased by this. Then she turned to the ice cream shop and said, “Anyway, as I was saying, it’s sad that they took him.”  
  
“Who?” Draco asked, and then realized there was only one man she could be talking about. “Fortescue? The ice cream man?”  
  
“Wasn’t I clear?”  
  
Part of him wanted to explain that he was being rhetorical, but he knew he didn’t have the patience. “Who took him?”  
  
“Death Eaters of course,” she said. “They dragged him off one night. No one knows why, but I suppose he did something to make them angry.”  
  
Draco stared at the empty shop. He hadn’t known. Hadn’t even suspected. Wasn’t this the sort of thing he ought to be aware of now? Shouldn’t he be told who to watch out for and who was a friend? Shouldn’t he know before deciding to get a sweet that the man who sold them was imprisoned – probably dead.  
  
“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you. Were you very close?”  
  
He nearly scoffed at the notion – him, close with a merchant – when she laid a hand on his arm. As his bad luck would have it, she stood at his left, which meant that his left hand bore the brunt of her contact. It was a light enough weight against his sleeve, but that didn’t matter. His left arm always throbbed with a dull, constant ache, but anyone so much as brushing against him left it screaming in agony. He winced, unable to stop himself, and cried out, yanking his arm away.  
  
Her hand hung in the air as if pressing against an invisible companion. She wrinkled her forehead, a dark line forming between her blond eyebrows. “Are you all right?”  
  
“Fine,” he growled, trying to ignore the fire racing up and down his flesh, zeroing in on a small patch on the inside of his forearm. Every nerve sang with pang like a harp string plucked and vibrating on and on. Sweat broke out on the back of his neck and his jaw ached with the effort it took not to fall into a swearing fit.  
  
Something shifted in her posture, indicating a change in her disposition. It wasn’t fear. Perhaps she was too mad to be afraid of anything, but she was definitely wary. Apparently, he inspired caution if not terror. He decided it would do for now.  
  
“How did you hurt yourself?”  
  
“Who said I did?”  
  
“Did someone hurt you?”  
  
He raised both eyebrows, nearly agreeing, but then drew it back. “I was flying, and I had a bit of an accident. Why do you care?”  
  
She paused, considering. “I’m not sure why. But I do care.”  
  
Draco began to straighten, considering her. She certainly did have mysterious down pat; too bad she did it in a way that was infuriating, not attractive. She wasn’t enigmatic, but completely backward. She said she cared, but how could she? He wasn’t family, he wasn’t a friend. They weren’t in the same house. And she didn’t know it yet, but they weren’t on the same side. She had no reason to care, so of course she didn’t. But then why would she say that she did?  
  
“I’m leaving,” he announced, forcing himself upright. “Do me a favor. Try not to run into me again.”  
  
“Try not to hurt your arm again.”  
  
He wanted to say something both biting and pithy in response, something that would reassure her that there was nothing out of the ordinary about him. But she was already leaving him, and with her back turned, it just didn’t seem as important anymore.  
  


* * *

  
“Not sure we do get out,” Sirius muttered, scratching behind his ear. “Not sure we can without help.”  
  
The usual twinge of fear bloomed in Harry’s chest, but he quickly soothed it away. He’d been in worse spots than this, after all. “Hermione’ll figure something out.”  
  
Sirius nodded. “Or Remus will know what to do.”  
  
Harry cast his eyes around the grey world, seeking out landmarks or signposts or anyone with a face. But all he saw were tattered grey curtains swaying in a wind he couldn’t feel. Perhaps it was the force of the whispers, blowing them with their speech. “So, it’s like… it’s like we’re in some kind of afterlife. Since only Luna and I could hear the voices, just like the Thestrals.”  
  
Sirius winced. “I didn’t realize you heard them too.”  
  
“I saw Cedric—"  
  
“I know,” Sirius sighed.  
  
The fear returned, no longer blooming like a rose but scraping like a thorn. “Are we dead?”  
  
He’d expected Sirius to mirror his own terror, but the older man only smiled and cuffed him on the back of his head. “Can’t be. Too solid.” He exhaled sharply. “And breathing.”  
  
“Then… we’re alive. And everyone else is dead. All the voices.”  
  
“Looks that way.”  
  
Harry shivered and wrapped his arms around himself. “I don’t like it.”  
  
Sirius let out a single sharp laugh. “Death’s not here to be liked, Harry.”  
  
Certainly not. And Harry hadn’t liked Death at all for quite some time. Ever since he was a child.  
  
“Mum and Dad,” he whispered, already moving. “I could find them.”  
  
Sirius’s hand fell on his arm, gently restraining but heavy as chains. “Harry—"  
  
“They’re my parents,” he snapped. “They’re your friends. I want to see them.”  
  
“Do you see anyone? Anyone besides us?”  
  
Harry squeezed his eyes shut. “Then I could follow their voices, couldn’t I?”  
  
Neither one of them spoke, but there was no such thing as silence. All the murmuring, hissing voices swelled around them, surrounding them on all sides. The volume rose, though only a little, in their self-imposed quiet.  
  
“How?” Sirius asked, his vibrating tone keeping the noise at bay. “There’s too many, Harry. We’d never find them. And then maybe we’d never be found.”  
  
Harry wanted to argue, which even he had to admit had been something of a default position this year. But damn it if his godfather wasn’t making sense. He folded his arms again, petulant rather than guarding against the cold. “Don’t sound like yourself.”  
  
“It seems I channel Remus in the afterlife,” Sirius joked. “Who knew?”  
  
Harry sighed and looked back the way he came. He recognized nothing. “They’re certainly taking their time.”  
  
“It’s all right,” Sirius soothed brusquely. “They’ll be here. They’ll come.”  
  


* * *

  
“Fucking piece of fucking shit,” Draco swore without much feeling, kneeing the rotting cabinet doors. “Work!”  
  
He’d been trying to get the cabinet to see reason, inasmuch as a piece of furniture could, for nearly three months now. He’d had minimal success. The vanishing cabinet still vanished things, but it was a matter of getting it to connect with its mate back at Borgin and Burkes. He’d lost countless items from the Room of Hidden Things with his experimenting and worked so late into the night that by the time he finished, his fingers could barely work properly.  
  
The worst of it was that no one seemed to be of a mind that he was actually trying. How often had he received owls from his mother gently urging him to go to Professor Snape for help? They’d been coming more frequently, and they were steadily growing less gentle. He could only guess at what was prompting her anxiety, though he didn’t care to. She’d been uncharacteristically explicit in telling him that someone might come to him soon to check on his progress. He didn’t have to ask who that was.  
  
He supposed he ought to be happy that it wasn’t the Dark Lord himself paying him a visit. His mother, who had been irrationally afraid following his recruitment, had become paranoid that Draco would often appear before him. She’d then surprised him with the admission that she herself was an Occlumens, who then proceeded to pass on the secrets to him. She’d insisted that he know how to protect his thoughts from the Dark Lord should they meet face-to-face again.  
  
His mother hadn’t known then that Fenrir Greyback would be his contact, and Occlumency wouldn’t do a damn thing to protect him from that foul wolf. Nor had she anticipated that her teachings would be used to fend off another Legilimens. Professor Snape had cornered him and tried to use it once already, had been surprised to find that he could not undo Draco’s plans by looking into his mind.  
  
‘I want to help,’ he’d said. ‘I want to make sure you succeed.’ Not bloody likely. Draco had been warned to keep his mission and his plans to himself. He saw no reason to go against these instructions; it wasn’t worth the risk. Besides, going to Snape would have meant admitting defeat. Draco wouldn’t go crawling to him because of a few minor setbacks. Draco would make sure that no Malfoy would have to yield to his knees ever again.  
  
“ _Tempus_ ,” he muttered, pointing his wand upwards. The numbers immediately flashed above his head in light blue. It was nearly four in the morning. No doubt Crabbe and Goyle were fixing to nod off, if they hadn’t already, and they were likely quite sick of the long hair by now. So Draco rose to his feet, gave the cabinet one last good kick, and strode out of the room.  
  
Imagine his surprise when he saw Luna Lovegood sitting outside the door.  
  
“You have  _got_  to be joking,” he nearly shouted. He immediately sought out the sheepish forms of Crabbe and Goyle, no longer even transfigured into girls, hanging back in the shadows. “Did I not tell you to keep people like her, but most specifically her, from sticking their noses into things?”  
  
“Most specifically me?” Luna asked, looking a little touched.  
  
Draco wanted very badly to rip his hair out. “Well, you’re the only one who’s been following me around since school started!”  
  
She frowned. “You noticed?”  
  
“Yes, and why am I even talking to you? Crabbe! Goyle!” They cringed at his voice. “Explain.”  
  
Goyle exhaled sharply, his big chest deflating, signaling defeat. “We did like you said. Dressed up like girls and led anyone away who came near. Worked for Filch half-a-dozen times, till we locked him in his office.”  
  
“But she comes rounding the corner, takes one look at us, and sits down once we start to run,” Crabbe explained. “We couldn’t exactly drag her off.”  
  
 _“Why not?”_  
  
“She’s mental, innit she?” Goyle asked. “Can’t be right. Draggin’ off a mental person.”  
  
“’Sides, she’s a bird. Can’t go draggin’ off bird neither.”  
  
“’Specially mental ones.”  
  
“Too right.”   
  
Draco just barely resisted the urge to go back into the Room of Hidden Things to find items to pitch at his so-called friends. “Just. Go.”  
  
One thing could be said for Crabbe and Goyle both: Draco never needed to repeat himself.  
  
Draco looked down at Luna, who seemed to be in no hurry to rise, and said, “Why are you doing this? Why are you following me?”  
  
“I think you’re in trouble.”  
  
He laughed, stifling it when he realized how unsettling the sound was echoing across the vaulted stone ceilings. “So what if I am? What business is it of yours?”  
  
Luna frowned and then stood without placing her hands on the floor, moving something like a vertical river. Then she reached forward and grasped his hands, hooking their fingertips together. He was too stunned to shake her off.  
  
“You told me that Harry trained me to kill people like you,” she murmured, her voice sliding through him like a long-forgotten lullaby. “And maybe he did. But I think mostly, he was teaching me how to save people like you.”  
  
Draco scoffed. “What makes you think I need saving?”  
  
Her grip on his left hand suddenly tightened, and with an impressive use of wandless magic for a Fifth Year, pushed back the sleeve of his robes, revealing the Dark Mark.  
  
He yanked his hand away, drawing his own wand. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”  
  
She didn’t seem afraid; she never seemed afraid. She only looked sad. “I’d hoped I was wrong.”  
  
“How did you know?” he spat. “Who told you? No one! I haven’t told anyone. Only mother knows, and the others, so how do you?”  
  
“Your arm hurt back at Diagon Alley,” she reminded him. “You said it was a Quidditch accident, but then why wasn’t it taped up? Or why hadn’t it been healed?”  
  
Draco scowled, swearing silently at his own stupidity. She’d unsettled him so much he’d told a bad lie. She always caught him off-guard, threw him off kilter. And now he’d paid for it.  
  
“I wanted to be wrong,” she murmured sincerely. “Oh, Draco. Why did you do this?”  
  
He shook the sleeve of his robes down until it covered his arm to the knuckles. “You listen to me, Loony. There’s no reason for you to get involved in any of this, so stop sticking your nose in it. Forget what you saw. Forget that I come here. Forget everything if you want to live.”  
  
“Are you threatening me?” She acted surprised by this, as if the mark on his forearm were just an ordinary tattoo.  
  
“I am warning you,” he clarified. “You’re annoying as hell, but I’d rather not see you dead.”  
  
She raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”  
  
He paused, marveling a bit at this himself. What did he care if Luna Lovegood kicked it? He shook his head, muttering, “Not right to kill crazy people I suppose.” Then he turned and stalked toward the Slytherin dungeons, leaving Luna once and again, hopefully for the last time.  
  
This was getting dangerous. People were beginning to get suspicious. If Luna went to Granger or Weasley with what she’d seen, they could make things very difficult for him. He’d managed to fly under their radar in their desperate search for an answer to Potter’s disappearance, but a classmate with a Dark Mark might manage to grab their attention away.  
  
But if she went to the Headmaster….  
  
Draco felt considerably cheered. If she told Dumbledore, the old man would have to call Draco to his office. And that would get Draco close enough to fulfill the second part of his assignment.  
  
So he’d wait a bit. See what Lovegood decided to do with her information. And if she decided to do what he asked and keep it to herself…. Well, he had other options.  
  


* * *

  
“Hello, Severus.”  
  
Snape looked up from his desk, raising his eyebrow in mild surprise at the sight of Remus Lupin in his office. Remus supposed it wasn’t often that werewolves stopped by unannounced. “Lupin.”  
  
Remus curled his hands around his steaming mug of hot chocolate, thankful that he’d decided to stop by the kitchens to procure some before coming to see the Potions Master. The dungeons were notoriously cold, but the presence of Snape in them seemed to lower the temperature considerably. “I thought I might save Horace the trouble and pick up the Wolfsbane Potion myself.”  
  
“And you thought you would stop by and exchange pleasantries?” Snape drawled.  
  
“Something like that.”  
  
“Indeed,” Snape muttered, predictably withholding any gratitude. “How odd that this sudden trip directly follows the hospitalization of one our students.”  
  
Cover blown, Remus saw no need to cling to pretense. “How is Ms. Bell?”  
  
“Recovering at St. Mungo’s,” Snape muttered, suddenly looking very tired. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know, Lupin, I am at a loss as to why you could not inquire about her condition in a letter or a fire call.”  
  
Remus shrugged. “Maybe I wanted to see if there was anything I could do to help.”  
  
Snape fell into his default sneer. “I sincerely doubt the students would like any help from a werewolf, particularly in these troubled times.”  
  
Remus tightened his grip on his hot chocolate, heedless as the heat began to burn his skin. “Not every student in this castle believes that I’m a danger to them.”  
  
“Enough of them do,” Snape reminded him. “As do their parents.”  
  
Remus took a quick sip from his drink, mostly to prevent himself from doing something childish like flinging it in his old schoolmate’s face. “How like you to rub salt into old wounds.”  
  
“And how like you to assume that your presence is a comfort to anyone,” Snape spat. “I’ll admit that there are those in Gryffindor Tower who consider you a friend, but then you ought to have gone there. Instead, you came to my office, in the Slytherin dungeons, where I guarantee that you will find no one sympathetic to your plight. Now if you would not mind explaining to me what you really came for, I would greatly appreciate it lest I get fleas.”  
  
“Fine,” Remus growled, slamming the mug onto the desk. “Was it Draco Malfoy?”  
  
“Ah,” Snape said, eyes shining. “Now we come to it.”  
  
“Just answer the question, Severus.”  
  
“I might first want to ask you why you believe the young Malfoy is under suspicion?”  
  
“Ron Weasley owled me. In between fretting about Hermione rarely emerging from her research about Harry, he asked if I had any idea why Luna Lovegood might have taken an interest in the Malfoy boy.”  
  
Snape arched an eyebrow. “Why indeed. I might want an answer to that question myself.”  
  
“I couldn’t even tell you what her boggart is,” Remus muttered. “She refused to participate in that particular exercise, said she didn’t want to alarm anyone, and then stuck her nose back in her father’s newspaper.”  
  
“You should have told her to picture me in a  _silly hat_.”  
  
“The point is,” Remus continued, “that it doesn’t take a genius to figure out why anyone would take an interest in Draco Malfoy. I don’t have to tell you that Voldemort using the son to torture the father isn’t unlike him.”  
  
“You certainly don’t,” Snape muttered, rolling his eyes.  
  
Remus sighed. “He’s recruited the boy, hasn’t he? Given him some sort of mission?”  
  
“His mother has told me as much.”  
  
“Well, what is it?”  
  
Snape let his quill fall out of his fingers. “I can’t say that the boy has taken me into his confidence, Lupin. He is under the deluded misconception that he can handle it by himself. Whatever  _it_  is.”  
  
Remus appraised him for all of three seconds before snorting. “You know. And you won’t tell me.”  
  
Snape’s look of intense displeasure was enough of an affirmative.  
  
“Fine,” Remus grumbled. “Slytherins take care of their own. I know that well enough. But when other students are in danger—"  
  
“Ms. Bell will live,” Snape reminded him.  
  
“And what if Hagrid hadn’t pulled her down in time?” Remus snapped. “It’s my understanding that some students thought it was all a joke. Only Neville and Ginny understood what was really happening, and they ran to get him. They could have all left her there until she died.”  
  
“Well, that isn’t what happened.”  
  
“Dumbledore ought to put a stop to this.”  
  
Snape’s eyes flashed, and he shot up, baring his horrible teeth. “Do not presume to say what the Headmaster ought to do with his students.”  
  
“I used to be a teacher here, Severus,” Remus said with an added bite. “I know that things were dangerous enough before Voldemort began his ascent. Allowing a loose cannon like Draco Malfoy running around doing Merlin only knows what is practically inviting Death to Hogwarts’s doorstep.”  
  
“Death comes for us all,” Snape murmured.  
  
“Well, there’s no need to rush it along!” Remus hissed. “You seem to be privy to all of his plans. Why doesn’t he stop the boy?”  
  
Snape scowled. “You were always the clever one, Lupin. You tell me.”  
  
In the end, there was only one reason, could only be one reason. But Remus had wanted Snape to tell him something different. He thought he wanted the truth, but in the end, what he really wanted was the more comfortable lie. He should have gone on telling it to himself instead of coming here to have his fears confirmed.  
  
“He’s just a boy,” Remus murmured. “He oughtn’t be used.”  
  
“I thought he was a cannon.”  
  
“He’s a boy who’s been handed too much responsibility by one war lord,” Remus insisted. “And he’s being allowed to continue based on the whims of another. Children shouldn’t be soldiers. They shouldn’t be fighting our wars. They shouldn’t be our instruments.”  
  
Snape’s smile was a knife in the gloom. Remus already felt it sinking through his skin. “Well, perhaps we’d have no need for Draco Malfoy if Harry Potter were still around.”  
  
The blow hit as it always did. Remus wondered why he’d exposed his underbelly.  
  
Then again, he didn’t really have to. Snape could always reach it no matter how Remus tried to prevent it. After all, snakes crawled on the ground.  
  


* * *

  
It wasn’t often that Ron was called to the Headmaster’s office, and the last time had not ended well for him. Spending half the day in a lake, waking up soaking wet, and shivering your arse off was not his idea of a good time. So when Professor McGonagall interrupted yet another marathon research session with Hermione, he couldn’t allow himself a moment to be pleased with the interruption.  
  
He spoke the password she’d given him (‘goblinberry tart’), ascended the swirling stone stairs, and wondered what horrible fate would befall him thanks to this interview with Dumbledore. Still, he was a Gryffindor, so once he reached the office, he strode forward with his head held high. No sense looking like a prat in front of the most powerful wizard alive.  
  
Even if the most powerful wizard alive had somehow wound up with the most disgusting hand in the history of wizardom.  
  
“You wanted to see me, sir?” Ron asked, doing his best not to stare at the withered appendage. Predictably, his best was not that great.  
  
Dumbledore tactfully rearranged his robes and then stepped out from behind his desk. “Never fear, Mr. Weasley. I have no intention of arranging a reunion between you and the merfolk. Though I do believe they were quite impressed with your hair color.”  
  
Ron felt the back of his neck burst into flame. “Pleased to hear that, sir. About the lake, I mean. Don’t know how I feel about merpeople liking gingers.”  
  
Dumbledore chuckled, but Ron didn’t miss the distinct lack of warmth in his eyes. Ron didn’t see much of Dumbledore outside of meals, but he felt like the old man had seemed considerably older lately. The strain of losing Harry must have hit him harder than Ron had thought.  
  
“Tell me, Ron,” Dumbledore began, “how is your research going?”  
  
Ron plopped down in the chair, too exhausted to stand just thinking about it. “Bloody awful, if you’ll pardon me, sir.”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“There’s no books on the stupid veil to begin with, or none we’ve found at any rate,” Ron grumbled. “And we’ve been ordering them in from all kinds of libraries. You should see the looks Madame Pince has been giving us….” He frowned. “But that’s not the worst of it.”  
  
Dumbledore sighed. “You’re worried about, Ms. Granger.”  
  
“Yeah.” Ron shifted in his seat. Talking about his feelings was never a comfortable thing for him, since no one had ever asked after him at home. But without Harry to rant to on occasion, Ron had felt fit to burst, and though his visit with Remus a few weeks before had helped, it had only let out a little steam. “I’ve never seen her like this, sir. She’s… obsessed. Nothing distracts her. Do you know I have to remind her to eat? And sometimes I have to force her to go to bed. I’ve taken to tucking her in down in the Common Room just so I can keep my eyes on her, make sure she doesn’t wake up in the middle of the night to look at one more book and so on.” He dragged his hands down his face. “And McGonagall’s been on my arse – sorry – about it too. Says her grades have been slipping. I’ve seen her rushing through her homework just so she can get back to finding things out to help Harry, and smart as she is, she’s messing up. Hermione, getting marks off and not even caring.” Ron shook his head. “It’s barmy, that’s what it is.”  
  
“Yes, Professor McGonagall has come to me with similar concerns.” Dumbledore began to pace towards another end of the room, his hands tucked behind his back. “That is why I called you here, Mr. Weasley.”  
  
Ron’s face fell. “I can’t talk to her, Professor. Honestly, I’ve tried.”  
  
“I know you have,” Dumbledore soothed. “And I’m afraid there’s little to be done for Ms. Granger short of taking care of her and helping her search for an answer to our quandary.”  
  
Ron’s shoulders sagged. He’d been hoping Dumbledore might have told him he was ordering Hermione to stop. He’d thought maybe if it came from the Headmaster, she’d actually listen.  
  
It wasn’t that he didn’t want Harry back. He’d punch anyone who suggested that. But he was just so bloody tired. He spent every waking hour reading up on doorways and dimensions and all sorts of things he couldn’t even begin to understand, taking notes for Hermione to sort through, and praying she came upon an answer soon. He wanted to start  _doing_  something. He wanted to pull Harry out by his ears and then kick him in the bollocks for putting him through all this shit.  
  
Ron didn’t even have a life to speak of anymore. All he did was research, research, research. Lavender Brown had come up to him months before, whispered things in his ear that nearly made him pop. And he’d had to ignore her and go back to books that couldn’t seem to use words less than four syllables and frequently slipped into Latin. As if he knew Latin. And it wasn’t even that he actually liked Lavender, but it would have been something different, something to break the monotony of his so-called life.  
  
But he couldn’t leave Hermione. She would have been all alone then. She’d work herself to death if he didn’t make her eat and sleep and wash. And before then, she’d fall apart. He knew she would. If he wasn’t there to hold her hand throughout all the disappointments and dashed hopes, she’d go mad.  
  
And then what would become of him?  
  
“Mr. Weasley, I suspect you’re not listening to me.”  
  
“What? Oh, sorry.” He rose to his feet again and strode over to where Dumbledore stood. “Go on, sir. I’m listening.”  
  
Dumbledore smiled that familiar mysterious smile and said, “To be perfectly honest, Mr. Weasley, I would prefer to speak with Ms. Granger on this subject, but I know there will be no tearing her from her research.”  
  
Ron couldn’t help but feel the familiar twinge of disappointment. As always, he was nobody’s first choice. “Oh.”  
  
“It has nothing to do with ability,” Dumbledore said, his tone somewhat admonishing. “But only circumstance.”  
  
Ron frowned. “Do you mean because she’s Muggleborn?”  
  
“No,” Dumbledore said, waving his hand at a cabinet. Ron watched as the doors peeled away, revealing a Pensieve filled with shimmering light. “I would like to speak with Ms. Granger because of her designation as a would-be member of the… Slug Club, as you call it.”  
  
Ron raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, Slughorn’s been after her all year. She won’t have anything to do with him – he’s a distraction apparently.”  
  
“I imagine he is,” Dumbledore muttered, chuckling a little. “Now, Ron, I realize that Christmas vacation is upon us. I understand you and Ms. Granger will be departing for the Burrow, though you will be taking no less than half of our library with you.”  
  
Ron could only groan in response.  
  
“I was wondering if, when the holidays are over, you would like to do me a favor.”  
  
“Does it involve reading?”  
  
“Most definitely not.”  
  
If George hadn’t spent years insisting that Dumbledore was inclined ‘that way,’ Ron may very well have kissed him. “Sign me up!”  
  
Dumbledore smiled behind his ever-present veil of whiskers and gestured to the Pensieve. “Would you step over here, Mr. Weasley? There’s something you need to see.”  
  


* * *

  
Draco ran through the halls of Malfoy Manor, sprinted up every stair, threw himself into his room, and locked the door. Then he magicked his wardrobe to stand in front of the door, sank to his knees, and began to stand guard. If anyone, absolutely anyone managed to burst through his barricade, he’d be ready for them.  
  
He glared down at his wand hand and the hawthorn trembling between his fingers. He tried to steady it with his other arm, but this only made matters worse. He finally decided to forgo his vigilance and dropped the wand, hugging his knees to his chest and struggling not to fly apart.  
  
He wondered if this was everyone’s reaction when Fenrir Greyback paid them a visit.  
  
 _‘Aren’t you sittin’ pretty, so like a Malfoy. How old are you, boy? Going on 17?’_  
  
How stupid he had been. How foolish and rash and naïve, just like his mother had said. What had possessed him to toss Greyback’s name around so casually? He’d been told to, of course, and told that Greyback would be checking up on him. But it had been months, and there’d been no sign of him. Draco thought maybe he’d been too busy. Perhaps he had been. But no more.  
  
 _‘A little old for me, but nobody’s perfect.’_  
  
He regretted everything he’d ever said about Professor Lupin, every lie he’d ever told. Lupin may have been a werewolf, but he was not the monster they had made him out to be. They’d never really been afraid of Lupin. It had all been for show.  
  
Draco was very, very afraid of Greyback.  
  
 _‘I seem to recall you were told to do something for the Dark Lord. Now me, I don’t care about politics. Don’t give a shit about them. I’m not in it for that.’_  
  
It had been a warning. And Draco knew better than to think he’d get more than one. He knew he was lucky to get one at all.  
  
 _‘I’m in it for when people like you don’t do your jobs.’_  
  
Draco couldn’t fail again. Katie Bell had been a mistake he couldn’t afford to make, but he’d made it all the same. Now people were asking questions, wondering who the would-be killer inside of Hogwarts was. And Lovegood was still looking at him with those all-seeing, fearless eyes. She looked at him and through him, and he knew he couldn’t hide from her much longer. She hadn’t told yet, but she would. And then what would become of him? How could he do what he needed to do if they knew?  
  
 _‘Cause the Dark Lord, see, he doesn’t mind throwing me a bone or two when it comes to people who fail him. How many bones do you suppose you have under your young flesh, little Malfoy?’_  
  
He had to get that cabinet to work. He had to kill Dumbledore. He had to do it all, and he had to do it soon.  
  
 _‘It may please you to know, I won’t lay a single finger on your mother. Oh, no.’_  
  
If he didn’t, if he failed….  
  
 _‘Dark Lord knows I can’t stand them that old.’_  
  
He wouldn’t be the only one to pay the price for it.  
  
 _‘I’m sure he’ll do the honors himself.’_  
  


* * *

  
Vacation ended, and eventually, all the students returned to Hogwarts to finish out the term. January turned to February, and winter continued to bite and leave the world masked in dead white. Families continued to be attacked. Anxieties continued to rise. People continued to mourn the loss of Harry Potter, and Ron and Hermione continued to look for a way to solve all of their problems with one fell swoop.  
  
But Ron found himself dealing with another mission, this one assigned by Albus Dumbledore himself. Dumbledore needed him to convince Horace Slughorn to give him the proper memory of when Tom Riddle – Voldemort before he’d lost his nose and his sanity – had asked after Horcruxes. Slughorn had been too ashamed of the truth to show it to Dumbledore, and no amount of pressure from the headmaster had caused him to cave. So for some reason, he’d decided that Ron ought to do it.  
  
Ron hadn’t quite followed Dumbledore’s logic in asking him at all. He knew Harry could have done it, but that was certainly out of the question. Hermione likely could have appealed to his sense of reason or some such, but it was steadily becoming more and more difficult for Hermione to realize that there was a life outside of research. Ron understood that this left him as the next natural choice as far as the Friends of Harry Potter Brigade went. He did not understand why independent of his connections he was at all suited for the job.  
  
Of course, throughout January and February, Ron had begun to realize that perhaps he wasn’t suited and Dumbledore was just feeling particularly desperate.  
  
Ron did not believe he was a master of subtlety, so he had attempted to ask Professor Slughorn right out. However, considering the particular shade of purple the Potions instructor had turned when Ron had brought up Horcruxes and the amount of spittle that hit him in the face during Slughorn’s complete denial of knowing anything about the subject, this had likely been in error. Ever since the first attempt, Slughorn made a point of running in the opposite direction every time they crossed paths.  
  
This had now been going on for a little over two months, and Ron was certain he was going to lose it. He could make no headway with Slughorn, and as far as he knew, they weren’t making any progress on getting Harry and Sirius back either. Frankly, he didn’t understand half of what he read, but he hadn’t seen Hermione’s face light up with the promise of a new theory for quite some time. Ron’s hope flagged to the point of almost diminishing entirely.  
  
There was no guarantee that Harry was even alive.  
  
Ron shot up from his bed, twisting his hands in his hair. “Can’t think about that,” he hissed. “Don’t. Don’t think about it.”  
  
But how could he not? Harry and Sirius had been gone for months. Assuming that they had survived going through the veil, which Ron understood was no guarantee, who was to say that they’d survived crossing into whatever world lay beyond? If it was a realm for the dead, they certainly had no use for food and water. They’d likely starved to death within days. And say the veil led somewhere else. What hostile environments could they have stumbled into? A world with guns or monsters? Maybe even a world where Voldemort had already won. For all he knew, they were searching for an answer to problem that may not exist anymore. For all he knew, the good of the wizarding world had lost the war that night in the Department of Mysteries. Perhaps they could no longer trust to hope.  
  
He’d tried broaching this subject with Hermione once and only once. It was the one thing that got her to look up from her work. She’d stood before him, drawing herself to her full height, and slapped him across the face.  
  
“Harry’s alive,” she’d said with frightening conviction, shaking as if trapped in her own personal earthquake. “He has to be. He wouldn’t leave us. He’d never leave us.”  
  
 _‘But he did leave us,’_  Ron wanted to say.  _‘He left us when he ran through the veil, whether he’s alive or dead, he left. He’s my friend, and I want him back, but I can’t help but hate him a bit for leaving us behind.’_  
  
He’d said nothing. Just sat down and went right back to work.  
  
But he couldn’t take it for much longer. He couldn’t take Slughorn’s fear, Hermione’s obsession, and Dumbledore’s disappointment. Something had to give, soon. If Ron continued to fail at this as he had failed with what suddenly felt like everything else in his life, he didn’t know if he could stay tethered.  
  
Ron sat down on the floor of his dormitory hard, the furniture creaking in response. He knew he was going about this the wrong way. He’d tried to think of how Harry would do it, and realized that he had probably done exactly what do. He couldn’t even begin to think of what Hermione would do, so instead, he tried to think of what Harry would do after failing the first time.  
  
“Ask Hermione,” he murmured, running a hand down his face. “He’d ask Hermione, and she’d tell him.”  
  
But would Hermione tell him? Could Hermione think of anything other than her books and her research?  
  
“No sense thinking about it,” he muttered and scrambled to his feet. He jogged down the stairs, into the common room, and was not the least bit surprised to find Hermione commandeering her usual table surrounded by books. He rolled his eyes, trying to remember the days when he viewed this with friendly affection and not with exasperation and anxiety. Then he strode forward and sat down in his usual chair.  
  
“You’ve overslept,” Hermione said dispassionately.  
  
“You haven’t slept at all,” Ron grumbled, noting her rank hair and purple shadows beneath her eyes.  
  
She shrugged as if this was of no consequence. “It isn’t a day for classes, so I thought I’d go through a few more books after you went to bed.”  
  
He laid his hand on her wrist to still her movements. It felt thinner than the last time he’d held it. “Hermione, there’s something I need to ask you.”  
  
She looked up, and her left eye twitched a little. “Oh? What is it? Do you think you’ve found something?”  
  
“No,” he muttered, shamed beneath her determination. “No, it’s… it’s about something else actually.”  
  
“Oh, about that business with Dumbledore and Professor Slughorn?”  
  
Ron’s jaw fell open. “How do you know about that?”  
  
She scoffed and shook off his grip. “Honestly, Ron. I realize you think I’m teetering on the brink or something equally ridiculous, but I am not out of touch with reality. Of course, I am still irritated that you didn’t bother to say anything about it, but you are male and apparently thought I was too fragile to handle the information when you first received it.”  
  
Even filled with worry and overwhelmed with shock, Ron found himself grinning from ear to ear. This was the Hermione he remembered. “How’d you find out?”  
  
“A master of subtlety, you are not,” she said, confirming Ron’s suspicions on that matter. “I overheard you asking Professor Slughorn about Horcruxes months ago. I researched them myself while I was waiting on some more books regarding necromancy. Of course, once I discovered what they were, I wondered why on Earth you’d know about them, much less why you’d be asking after them. Then I remembered that Dumbledore wanted to see you right before Christmas, and everything sort of fell into place.”  
  
“I love you,” Ron said, realizing he sounded rather like a desperate puppy – if desperate puppies could talk at any rate.  
  
Hermione fluffed her hair, wrinkling her nose at the feel of her greasy curls. “Yes, well. I still don’t understand why you need Professor Slughorn. I’m sure he’s very intelligent, albeit irritating, what with his incessant invitations.”  
  
Ron explained the whole mess to her. The memories, the alterations, Dumbledore mastering the disappointed twinkle, all of it. When he was done, Hermione frowned, tapping her finger on her chin.  
  
“Well, that certainly explains why Voldemort – honestly, Ron, must you make that face every time – doesn’t die. I ought to have worked that out.” She rubbed her temples and sighed. “So, Tom Riddle asked Professor Slughorn about Horcruxes, an exceptionally forbidden subject, Slughorn told him, and so now Voldemort -  _Ronald_  - can’t be killed. And he feels guilty over it, so he changed the memory.”  
  
“Seems that way,” Ron sighed. “And I can’t get him to talk to me. I’m just another Weasley, and it’s not as if I’m close with anyone in the Slug Club.”  
  
Hermione smirked. “Yes, you and Zabini don’t have much in common.” She frowned. “I thought I heard something about Ginny being in it.”  
  
“Nah, another one of his failed recruits,” Ron murmured, frowning. He preferred not to think of how his sister was dealing with Harry’s disappearance. He’d had enough of hearing his mother scream at her over Christmas, frequently throwing the words ‘scarlet woman’ around. Not one of his favorite holidays by a long shot. “Anyway, what am I to do, Hermione? He’s got no reason to tell me anything.”  
  
Hermione nodded. “Certainly not. But come on, Ron. You’re the chess player. Think of this like a game.”  
  
Ron felt his ears begin to burn at the compliment, but he quickly shook it off. No time for that. “Well… I suppose I ought to think about what his weaknesses are. And I guess it’s that he wants to be important, yeah? But he can’t be, so… he surrounds himself with people who are important. And students who will be.”  
  
“Good,” Hermione said, smiling as if everything was normal again. He wondered if she was even thinking about Harry. “How do you use that?”  
  
Ron’s brain worked it out as swiftly as he could manage, and after a few minutes, he could only come up with one answer. He looked at Hermione meaningfully.  
  
She groaned. “No, you were supposed to think of something else.”  
  
“Sorry.”  
  
“But I can’t stand him! Besides, I don’t have time for his little club. I think I’ve almost worked out—"  
  
“Hermione, you don’t actually have to do it,” Ron interrupted. He didn’t want to hear another ‘almost’ promise. “I vote we just go to his office and tell him that you’ll be happy to go to his next… tea or whatever if he gives us the real memory.  
  
She frowned. “Oh, Ron, can’t you just tell him yourself? I really can’t abide him, and besides, I need to keep reading.”  
  
“I don’t know…. Do you think he’ll believe me?”  
  
“Well, I suppose come and get me if it doesn’t,” she compromised. “I’m just very close to finishing this chapter; if you come back when I’m done, it’ll be a good stopping point.”  
  
“Fine,” Ron agreed, getting to his feet. “Thanks, Hermione.”  
  
He started to walk off, emboldened by her suggestion and thrilled to have something resembling a plan. He was almost finished exiting through the portrait hole, when she called out to him.  
  
“And be sure to mention it’s your birthday!” Hermione said. “He might be more amenable.”  
  
He grinned. “Good thinking.”  
  
Then he walked out of the Gryffindor common room towards Horace Slughorn’s office, optimistic for the first time in a long while. Perhaps finally, things were looking up.  
  
“Happy birthday to me.”

 

* * *

 

On March 1, 1997, Professor Horace Slughorn and Ronald Weasley died. They ingested an unknown poison hidden in a bottle of oak-matured mead. They died within minutes.  
  
When Albus Dumbledore heard the news, he demanded to examine the bottle in question immediately. He did not miss the to-from tag still hanging from the neck. Horace had been planning to give it to him, but decided against it at the last minute. His greed and taste for fine things had saved Dumbledore’s life, but cost the wizarding world two more. One of them a child. One of them a child Dumbledore had sent to do his bidding. One of them a child who might have succeeded, might have been drinking a toast in honor of that success. But Dumbledore would never know. And he would never see the contents of that uncensored memory. He wished he could mourn Ron Weasley more than this lost knowledge.  
  
When Professor Snape found out, his first thought was to find Draco Malfoy. He searched the Slytherin dungeons for him and found nothing. For the first time, he envied James Potter and his little friends the insight that had led them to create that blasted map. Not for the first time, he cursed the absence of Harry Potter, who had that blasted map.  
  
After the disastrous search for Draco, Professor Snape placed a fire call to one former Professor Remus Lupin. He didn’t know why he felt the urge, and why he then followed through with it. But he did know that Lupin was a big enough wizard not to say ‘I told you so’ and for once, Severus Snape wanted a little compassion.  
  
When Remus Lupin answered this fire call, he did not say ‘I told you so.’ He did not withhold his compassion. And he did his very best not imagine strangling the Malfoy boy with his bare hands.  
  
When Arthur Weasley was told of his son’s death, he didn’t believe it. He insisted a mistake had been made, that some other man’s red-haired freckled son had been found and been misidentified. But when he traveled to Hogwarts with his wife gathered in his arms, he saw his son laid out in a closed-off portion of the Hospital Wing. He could not deny his son’s face, his son’s skin, his son’s breath so conspicuously absent. He gave a great howl, fell upon his son’s body, and wept as if the world had ended. In a way, it had.  
  
There are no words to describe a mother’s grief.  
  
When Ginny Weasley found out about her big brother, she found Dean. She threw herself at him, demanded to know why he hadn’t been there. She said it should have been him, as bad a boyfriend as he was. She said he ought to have saved her big brother – they were roommates after all, and friends of a sort. She said she blamed him, said she hated him, said she didn’t understand why she’d had to lose Ron, said she should have been there, said it should have been her, said she hated herself. Then she fell into Dean’s chest and let him hold her as she cried. He wasn’t Harry, and he never would be Harry, but she let him comfort her because he was  _there_ , and that’s more than she could say for the Boy-Who-Left.  
  
When Professor McGonagall heard, she set her grief aside for just a little while. There would be time enough for mourning later, and as much as Ron Weasley had exasperated her, she knew she would take a fair amount for herself. But instead of bowing her head, she went and found Hermione Granger, who herself had her own head bowed, buried in a book like always. McGonagall laid a hand on the girl’s shoulder, led her up to her room (carrying an armload of books only to speed the process), and locked the door behind them. Then she told Hermione.  
  
And nothing happened.  
  
“Ms. Granger, did you hear me?” McGonagall asked gently, dipping her head in an attempt to make Hermione look at her. The girl stared only at the books that had been deposited on her bed.  
  
“I did,” Hermione whispered in a throaty voice. “I did. I…. Are you sure?”  
  
“Yes, Ms. Granger, I’m afraid so,” McGonagall continued. “He was in Professor Slughorn’s office. It seemed that a bottle of mead they drank had been poisoned. Though why they were drinking anything at this hour—"  
  
“It was his birthday,” Hermione interrupted. “Ron. It was his birthday.”  
  
McGonagall shut her eyes, steadying her nerves. “A toast to mark another year gone by then. Ms. Granger, I am so sorry.”  
  
Hermione shook her head. “No. It’s fine. I mean, don’t worry about me. I’ll get on.”  
  
McGonagall frowned. It had been difficult to predict the girl’s normally regimented behavior as of late, but this had been the last thing she expected. “Ms. Granger, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, what with this on top of Mr. Potter’s… disappearance—"  
  
“Harry’s not dead,” Hermione spat, fury suddenly leaping to her gaze.  
  
McGonagall held up her hands. “I never said he was.”  
  
“Your tone said it for you,” Hermione said. “I understand you want to make sure I won’t do something drastic, Professor McGonagall, but I can assure you that I’ll be perfectly all right if given some time to process this. Alone.”  
  
So McGonagall left and gave Hermione her time alone.  
  
Hermione stood in the center of the empty room, staring at the unoccupied beds of her roommates. She thought of Lavender Brown and how disappointed she had been when Ron turned her down. Hermione had not only been pleased, but smug, because that meant that Ron had picked her above another girl.  
  
But that hadn’t been about her, had it? It had been about Harry. Or maybe it had been about keeping her sane. It hadn’t been about anything more than that.  
  
And if it had, she’d never get to ask.  
  
She picked up the nearest book and threw it against the wall. Then she picked up another and another and another. The pages flew and the bindings ripped. She’d never heard a more satisfying sound. The books were even screaming in pain. But that was silly, none of these books were like to do that. Then she realized that her throat hurt, that it was her screaming.  
  
“You were supposed to bring him back!” she shouted, chucking yet another at Parvati’s bedpost. “You were supposed to save him!”  
  
She heard the quick thumping up the stairs and the door flying open. She drew her wand and spun around, breathing hard.  
  
It was only McGonagall again. She offered no gesture of surrender, but her eyes were liquid soft. “Ms. Granger.”  
  
The wand fell out of Hermione’s hand, clattering to the floor. Then her knees gave out, but McGonagall caught her before she hit the floor. She buried her face in the skirts of McGonagall’s tartan robes wailing like a child who had never encountered death. And even though she’d seen Cedric, lost Sirius, and couldn’t find Harry, it was nothing like knowing she’d never see Ron again.  
  
“They were supposed to bring him back,” Hermione hiccupped. “The books, they… they were supposed to bring him back.”  
  
“I know,” McGonagall soothed, smoothing her filthy hair. “I know.”  
  
So when Hermione Granger heard the news, she felt betrayed. What she had come to depend on had failed her. And her reliance on it had left Ron alone just when he needed her.  
  
All that, and she was no closer to bringing Harry home.  
  


* * *

  
“Shh,” Harry whispered, looking over his shoulder.  
  
“What is it?”  
  
“Shh!” Harry moved closer to where he thought he’d heard the sound, craning his neck. “Ron?”  
  
He stood, listened, and heard nothing but a multitude of desperate voices pleading for something he could not offer them.  
  
“Ron?” Sirius asked.  
  
“Thought I heard him calling me,” Harry murmured, turning back. “Guess I didn’t.”  
  
Sirius frowned, but he said, “Guess not.”  
  


* * *

  
After learning about what happened to Ron Weasley, Luna did not immediately go to Gryffindor Tower, although it was among her initial instincts. Instead, she wandered the rest of the castle, passing by people weeping and whispering in the corners. She saw a lot of people crying, and once or twice she stopped to tell the ones who looked worse off that it was all right. Ron would be fine. He’d just go on to the next life.  
  
They never said anything back. They just walked away. Luna didn’t think she’d made them feel much better.  
  
She went to the Slytherin dungeons and was nearly trampled by Snape swooping out of the doors like an enraged shadow. She went to the library and found it full of Ravenclaws who shut out their distant grief in books. She went to the Great Hall and found a few others eating it away. She wandered each floor, saving the seventh and the Room of Requirement for last since it would do her little good.  
  
Luna had taken to checking the boys’ bathroom, rightfully assuming that Draco wouldn’t expect her to check those. She’d surprised several other boys with this revelation, and been assured that the castle was very cold. Considering it was early March, Luna had to agree with them.  
  
She found him on the sixth floor, talking to Moaning Myrtle.  
  
“Don’t,” the ghost crooned. “Tell me what’s wrong. I can help you.”  
  
“No one can help me,” Draco insisted in a trembling voice. “I did it. I… I…”  
  
“Draco,” Luna called out, her voice punctuated by a leaking faucet.  
  
Malfoy gasped and gulped, and then, with a great shudder, looked up in the cracked mirror and saw Luna staring at him over his shoulder.  
  
He sniffed and wiped the tears away from his sleeve. “It’s you. Of course it’s you. It always is.”  
  
Luna turned her gaze from Draco towards Moaning Myrtle and gave her a slight nod. “Thank you, Myrtle; I’ll take it from here.”  
  
The ghost pouted, folding her arms crossly. “But I want to help the boy with his problems.”  
  
Luna smiled. “I’ll call you if he needs you. Okay?”  
  
Moaning Myrtle didn’t seem entirely satisfied with this arrangement, but realized it was the best she was likely to get. With her usual wail, she flipped in the air and dove into a toilet, streaking through the pipes to presumably return to her usual haunt.  
  
Now alone, Luna tentatively stepped closer to Draco. “I’m sorry. Would you have rather talked to her? I only assumed you might prefer someone alive.”  
  
Draco laughed, but it wasn’t anything that lifted her spirits. It was the sort of laugh she expected to hear at St. Mungo’s – the kind that scared other people. “I don’t know what I want. Except that I want to live, and I want my parents to live.”  
  
“That’s why, isn’t it?”  
  
Draco stopped staring at her in the reflection and instead looked into his own eyes. He looked ill and angry and so afraid. “He said he’d kill me and them both. My father… I don’t want him to die, but he chose to do this. But Mother… I can’t let him touch her.” His fingers strained against the porcelain. “I won’t.”  
  
Luna took another step forward, reaching for him. “Draco, let me help you.”  
  
“Why do you care?” Draco demanded, straightening like a whip cracking. Then he turned to face her, and she knew he wanted to frighten her. She could muster nothing but sympathy. “I killed your friend.”  
  
“You didn’t mean it,” Luna reasoned. “I know you didn’t.”  
  
“No,” Draco admitted. “But it doesn’t matter. He’s still dead. That won’t change anything for his parents or the 19 siblings, will it?”  
  
Luna tilted her head. “I didn’t think you cared about the Weasleys.”  
  
“I don’t!” Draco raged. “I don’t give a flying fuck about Ron Weasley or any of the others. But I… I killed their son. He was alive yesterday, and now he’s not, and I…  _hate_  how it makes me feel. I hate feeling guilty about it. I don’t like him. He’s a blood traitor, and he’s poor, and he’s stupid, and bloody awful at Quidditch, but he’s  _dead_ , and it’s my fault.” He sank into a squat, holding his head. “Why do I feel like this? I don’t care about him. I don’t!”  
  
Luna finished crossing and sat down in front of him. She wrapped her fingers around his wrists and gingerly pulled his hands away. Then she lifted his chin until he opened his eyes and looked at her.  
  
“You feel bad because you’re a good person, Draco,” Luna said. “I know you don’t think that. I know you hate yourself for this, and that’s okay. You’re allowed to. But I hope one day you realize that everything you’ve done, you’ve done out of fear and out of love.”  
  
He stared at her, grey eyes surrounded by angry red. “He’s… he was your friend.”  
  
“And I’m sad that he’s gone,” she admitted. “But I know he’s okay. I know that he’s not in pain. I know that he’s not afraid. I know that he’s with some of his family, with Cedric, maybe even with Harry. It’s sad for us when people die, but it’s not sad for the dead.”  
  
Draco’s shoulders heaved with a sob. “That doesn’t explain why you don’t hate me.”  
  
“Draco, I don’t know if you made the right decision,” Luna murmured. “I tried to help, and you refused. I know Dumbledore or Professor Snape would have helped you. I’d like to be angry at you for that, but… you’re sixteen. You’re only sixteen. I think you did the best you could on your own.  
  
“Besides,” she smiled at him with quiet sadness, smoothly away his overlong bangs from his brow. “I know you don’t want me, but I think you’re something of a friend too.”  
  
She hadn’t meant to make him cry again, but she did. He fell forward onto her chest, nearly knocking her flat with his weight. She wrapped her arms around him, giving him leave to cry. She ran her hands up and down his back, feeling each bone of his spine as it curved into her palm. She hummed a song her mother used to sing and didn’t say another word until he calmed down again.  
  
“Can I help you now, Draco?” she asked. “Will you let me?”  
  
His Adam’s apple bobbed against her skin. He took a long breath. When he exhaled, his breath felt cold.  
  
“Yes.”

 


	4. Burning Pale

Luna had wanted to go straight to Dumbledore, but Draco insisted on seeing Snape first. They arrived in his office just as he was finishing a fire call. With his eyes lowered and Luna’s hand ever-present on his shoulder, Draco told the Potions Master everything. Predictably, Snape was neither surprised nor terribly moved.  
  
He then led them to Dumbledore’s office and deposited them there for safe-keeping, presumably. Draco and Luna sat in silence as they waited for Snape and the Headmaster to return. They would undoubtedly have to wait until Dumbledore was finished with the Weasleys.  
  
After what must have been hours, Dumbledore and Snape swept into the room, and Draco told the story all over again. Luna never moved her hand.  
  
Finally, Dumbledore heaved a long sigh, tenting his fingers beneath his white chin. Draco tried not to look at the withered arm. “For obvious reasons, Mr. Malfoy, I wish you had come to me sooner.”  
  
Draco’s stiffened, immediately on the defense. “Well, I didn’t, for equally obvious reasons.”  
  
Those blue eyes that so many saw as benevolent hardened to steel. “Did you not think I could have protected you? And your mother? I could have even plucked your father out of Azkaban and hidden him elsewhere, if only you had come to me the moment you were threatened. Now Katie Bell is in the hospital, and two people are dead.”  
  
“I don’t need you to tell me what I’ve done,” Draco snapped.  
  
Dumbledore glared down at him, looking every bit the wizard the Dark Lord feared. Then he slumped forward, and he was a fragile old man again. “No. I suspect you don’t.”  
  
Snape looked over at the sleeping portrait of Phineas Nigellus and said, “I would advise you to apologize, Draco, but I fear that would be woefully inadequate.”  
  
Draco bowed his head and marveled at how low he had become that Luna Lovegood’s hand on his shoulder was something he felt grateful for.  
  
“You do realize I will have to tell the Weasleys and Professor Slughorn’s family what really happened?” Dumbledore asked. “I can hardly lie to them because the truth is uncomfortable.”  
  
“Of course,” Draco murmured. Then he looked up and scowled openly. “Will you also be telling them that you knew about me from the beginning and that you did nothing?”  
  
“Draco!” Snape spat. “Watch your tongue!”  
  
“Why?” Draco demanded. “Sir, I know my mother told you what was going on, and judging by Professor Dumbledore’s reaction, he knew as well. I can only assume that you told him, in which case, I believe your loyalties are a bit more mixed than the Dark Lord is aware.”  
  
Snape’s nostrils flared, his eyes violent and dark, but he had nothing to say. He couldn’t defend himself against the simple truth.  
  
To everyone’s surprise, perhaps even Luna’s, Dumbledore chuckled. “You’re right, Severus. The boy is bright.”  
  
Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, drumming the fingers of his good hand against the armrest. “Very well, Draco. I’ll lay it all out for you. You’re quite right about Professor Snape telling me about Voldemort’s plans to use you as revenge against your father. I know you have been tasked with letting the Death Eaters into Hogwarts by the end of the year. I also know you are meant to kill me, and that Katie Bell, Ron Weasley, and Horace Slughorn have been unfortunate casualties of this pursuit. Have I missed anything?”  
  
Draco continued to glare, but decided there was no need to hide now. “Madame Rosmerta is under Imperius. She gave the necklace to Katie so it wouldn’t be traced back to me.”  
  
Dumbledore arched an eyebrow. “An Unforgiveable. Who taught you how to work that?”  
  
“No one,” Draco ground out. “I saw my father do it enough to know how to make it work.”  
  
“Indeed,” Dumbledore murmured. “I’d be impressed with your aptitude for such complex spells if they weren’t employed for such dark purposes.”  
  
“And I’d be more impressed by your Slytherin way of handling this situation if I weren’t going to take the whole of the blame for Weasley and Slughorn,” Draco hissed. “Maybe I deserve it, but I don’t see it that way,  _sir._  As far as I’m concerned, you can share some, if not equal blame with me.”  
  
Dumbledore raised his eyebrows, a surprisingly conciliatory gesture. “And perhaps you are correct, Mr. Malfoy. Perhaps I even should take more of the blame, for you are a scared child and I am the responsible adult. But do not forget that Professor Snape, and it seems Ms. Lovegood here, offered you assistance, and you refused.”  
  
Draco shut his eyes tightly. “My parents—"  
  
“I will do my best to help your parents,” Dumbledore promised.  
  
He snorted. “What for?”  
  
Dumbledore rose from his seat and strode over to Snape by the fireplace. “Do not question my motives, Mr. Malfoy. Simply benefit from the results.”  
  
This was logic a Slytherin could not argue with. “Do you want something in return?”  
  
Snape turned his sneer in Draco’s direction. He wasn’t used to being on the receiving end, and he didn’t much like it. “Considering your… mysterious aptitude for Occlumency, the Headmaster and I once thought you might aid me in, yes, spying for the Order.”  
  
Draco felt the blood from his face drain away as if weighted by stones. “No. No, you can’t—"  
  
“Do note the past tense,” Snape continued, pursing his lips. “Considering the fates of Professor Slughorn and the Weasley boy, we are of the opinion that it is too risky. Clearly, you are not… reliable. It is too much to leave to chance.”  
  
Draco nearly sang with relief. “So what then? Am I to stay here?”  
  
“No, Mr. Malfoy,” Dumbledore said, readjusting his half-moon spectacles. “This is also not a cautious move on my part, and considering today’s events, I must err on the side of caution. You will likely be targeted by both sides. Therefore, I believe it is most prudent that we get you to a safe house immediately. Your best option is likely the former home of the Blacks, Grimmauld Place. I believe you visited in your youth?”  
  
Draco remembered nothing about the place except for its bad lighting. “Yes, I did. Unplottable, isn’t it?”  
  
“And the technical headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix,” Dumbledore continued. “However, with Sirius Black’s… absence, using the building has become somewhat difficult. He willed the building to Harry Potter, which helps matters not at all. From there, it would pass to a blood relative. The nature of certain enchantments have kept this from becoming general knowledge, but by all rights, Mr. Malfoy, you have some measure of claim over the property, and as such, I can think of no better place to keep you.”  
  
Draco bit the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from saying he was no one to be kept. “On the condition that I let the Order back in?”  
  
Dumbledore gave him that irritating, twinkling smile. “Clever indeed.”  
  
Draco felt his hands shake. “You said I’d be wanted by both sides.”  
  
“Members of the Order of the Phoenix are not the people I am concerned about, Mr. Malfoy.”  
  
“Oh, are the Weasleys not in it?” Draco snapped. “You say you’ll hide me, but in a den of lions – literally! Bloody Gryffindors. You may as well kill me now!”  
  
“Draco, please. You verge on hysterical,” Snape drawled.  
  
“I have bloody good reason to be hysterical!” Draco yelled, rising to his feet. “I don’t want to die!”  
  
“I can assure you—"  
  
“Of nothing. You can assure me of nothing,” Draco hissed. “If the Weasleys have access, they can kill me. And part of me wouldn’t even be able to blame them for it, though it pains me to admit it. So… lie to them, find me somewhere else, or—"  
  
“What if I went with you?”  
  
All eyes turned to Luna Lovegood.  
  
“Er,” Draco said. She was the only one who inspired such inarticulate responses in him.  
  
She stood at his side and said, “You’re afraid of being around the Order, but isn’t that mostly because you’d be alone? If I went with you, I could help keep you safe.” She swung her saucer eyes around to the adults in the room. “Couldn’t I?”  
  
Dumbledore gave her one of those baffling looks of his. Draco felt convinced they were made for each other. “Yes, Ms. Lovegood. You certainly could.”  
  
“I would point out the ludicrousness of this suggestion, but I feel that should be apparent,” Snape deadpanned.  
  
“Wait a moment!” Draco snapped. “You said you’d help my mother as well. Doesn’t that mean putting her into hiding? Wouldn’t she be with me?”  
  
“Unfortunately,” said Snape, “in the interests of keeping both of you safe, it’s best if you’re housed at separate locations. We’ll most likely move Narcissa out of the country and then do our best to put your father somewhere safe as well.”  
  
Draco’s heart sank. He’d been so looking forward to seeing his mother. “Oh.”  
  
“So you do need me,” Luna said, her voice eerily bright.  
  
Snape looked as though he had a migraine, and Draco sympathized entirely. “Really, Headmaster, are you sure this is wise?”  
  
Dumbledore held his hands out. “Our resources are limited, Severus. Unplottable locations do not fall into our laps often. Our only other option is to turn to the Ministry, and I find myself doubting that Minister Scrimgeour would offer us anything other than Azkaban for the boy.”  
  
A chill ran through Draco’s body that went all the way down to his bones. He’d once heard that many wizards could not decide which was worse: death or Azkaban. His father had picked the latter.  
  
“Are you certain you want to go with him, Ms. Lovegood?” Dumbledore asked.  
  
Draco felt light-headed. “My God, you’re considering this.”  
  
“I feel I must protest, Headmaster,” Snape said, curling his lip.  
  
“Noted, Severus,” Dumbledore said in that offhand way people had of saying that though the objection was acknowledged, it meant absolutely nothing.  
  
“I’m sure, Headmaster,” Luna assured him in her dreamy way. “Is that all right with you, Draco?”  
  
“It will do me no good to say no, right?”  
  
“Not especially.”  
  
He threw his hands up in defeat. “Fine. Loony and I can be roommates then. Merlin, what has my world come to?”  
  
“We’ll go pack,” Luna informed the professors, grabbing Draco’s wrist and pulling him out of the room, utterly heedless or perhaps willfully ignorant of how much Draco was not looking forward to this.  
  


* * *

  
After Luna shut the door, Dumbledore turned to Snape, one eyebrow raised. “Funny. I don’t recall ever saying that housing him and his mother in the same location was a security risk.”  
  
Snape stared straight ahead, cold as an arctic winter. “Draco is of no use to us in the war now,” he muttered, “but he could be one day. If his mother and later his father are around, they will keep him from aiding us. Apart, we have more chance of influencing him.” He smirked. “Especially with Ms. Lovegood of all people at his ear.”  
  
Dumbledore nodded slowly. “I see. So you still think he could be useful as a spy?”  
  
“I urged you to leave him be for a reason, did I not?”  
  
“Yes, you did,” Dumbledore admitted. “But I wonder, Severus, if Draco is safe at Grimmauld Place, and if Ms. Lovegood can keep him… otherwise occupied, what possible reason could he have to help us against Voldemort?”  
  
Snape looked down at his right hand, the one that had clasped Narcissa’s so many months ago while Pettigrew cast an Unbreakable Vow.  
  
“You never know what could happen.”  
  


* * *

  
Living with Loony Lovegood. It sounded like one of those bad serial comics Goyle was so fond of. But it was no work of fiction, no strip of paneled artwork with poor continuity and a sweat drop hanging over his forehead. It was his life, such as it was, in Grimmauld Place. And there was nothing to do but interact with her.  
  
Well, there was Kreacher too. Draco looked into what he assumed was the House Elf’s favorite corner and found him there, slouching away. The little creature had been overjoyed when he’d realized that Draco was a descendant of the Blacks. Draco had never been hugged by a House Elf before that day, and it was not an experience he cared to repeat.  
  
Luna seemed to be under the impression that the little grunt needed physical affection and had taken to offering it to Kreacher. She seemed to be oblivious to his reactions.  
  
“BLOOD TRAITOR! CORRUPTING BITCH! HOW DARE YOU COME INTO MY HOME! YOU ARE NOT FIT TO BREATHE MY DUST!”  
  
“Good morning, Mrs. Black.”  
  
“FILTH! USURPER! DEFILER!”  
  
“Have a nice nap.”  
  
Draco groaned, rubbing his temples. It was a rare day when the portrait of Great Aunt Wally did not scream at Luna. He was beginning to suspect that Luna was alerting the portrait to her presence purposefully. Maybe she entertained some notion that all the Black matriarch had to do was work out her aggression properly, and she’d be pleasant as pie.  
  
Luna appeared in the kitchen, a red beret perched jauntily on her head and her arms laden with the day’s groceries. “Hello, Draco.”  
  
He merely grunted in response. He wasn’t up to talking to her just yet. Apparently, before he fell through the veil obviously, Sirius Black had become addicted to coffee. Draco had made a cup from the leftover grounds upon moving in, and subsequently became addicted. He was now useless in the mornings until he’d had it, and they’d been out of it that morning.  
  
“I think Walberga is in a better mood today,” Luna mused, unloading her bags. Draco watched greedily for his precious caffeine. “She didn’t accuse me of having improper relations with Professor Lupin.”  
  
Draco snorted. He may have been the only one who found his great aunt’s more colorful ravings amusing, but even Lupin would eventually admit that the woman’s detailed depiction of his fictional liaison with Luna was comedy gold.  
  
“Oh,” Luna said, waving her wand at one of the bags. A cup of coffee from the local shop floated out. “I figured you wouldn’t want to wait, so I picked it up. Two creams and all the sugar in the shop, right?”  
  
“Bless you,” Draco said as he fell upon the concoction. He felt ready to join the living just smelling it. He cupped the brew between his hands and took a long sip, reveling in the pleasant burn as it traveled down his throat. He settled back into his chair with a contented sigh.  
  
Luna laughed, and he had to admit, the sound wasn’t altogether unpleasant. There was something musical in her variation of pitch when she laughed. It reminded him of wind chimes.  
  
“I know I’m enabling your addiction, but you’re such a bear when you’re not caffeinated,” she confided, pulling out her own cup of tea. Lately she had been favoring Mandarin Orange Spice, but today, he caught a whiff of chamomile underneath the citrus. “Clementine Chamomile,” she offered once she saw him looking. “New flavor.”  
  
He wrinkled his nose. “Fruit teas. Not natural.”  
  
“Not British, you mean.”  
  
“I fail to see the difference.”  
  
She finished putting away the food she’d gotten for the day, patting Kreacher on the head like a puppy when she passed by. He nearly snorted coffee up his nose when he saw the horrified look the House Elf gave her.  
  
“Draco.”  
  
“Loony.”  
  
She momentarily dropped her gaze. He knew she didn’t like the nickname, and he couldn’t say it had the same zip it had once had. But calling her by name indicated some sort of closeness, or that he had completely accepted her into his life. Considering the fact that she’d forced her way in, he wasn’t ready to allow that just yet, if ever.  
  
“I’m going through more books in the library today,” she said, taking a sip of her horrible fruity tea. “I don’t suppose you want to help.”  
  
“Have I ever done?”  
  
“No, but I’m asking anyway.”  
  
Draco shrugged, swallowing the last of his coffee. He rose to make his preferred breakfast – toast and blackberry jam. “I’ve no reason to go looking for ways to get Potter out. Assuming he can be retrieved, I much prefer him where he is.”  
  
“I know that’s not true,” she said.  
  
He rolled his eyes. They had a variation of this conversation nearly every day. It had been nearly a month since they’d moved in, and it was beginning to wear on him. “I don’t  _miss_  him.”  
  
“Maybe not,” she said, “but I think you miss having someone to argue with. I know it’s no fun fighting with me.”  
  
“Certainly not,” he mumbled, slicing his bread.  
  
“I don’t suppose I could bribe you?”  
  
Draco paused. This was new, or she’d never asked post-coffee before. It would have been positively un-Slytherin of him not to take her up on that sort of offer. The problem was, he couldn’t think of a thing she had that he wanted.  
  
“Well?”  
  
“I’m thinking,” he snapped. “You can’t just spring that on a person. Bribes must be well thought out.”  
  
“I see.”  
  
“I have to ask for something good, or else what’s the point?” he informed her blithely. “Not to mention, I have to come up with something that’s worth the price. A day looking through books is not my idea of a good time.”  
  
She came up beside him, tilting her head into his peripheral vision. “What do you do to have a good time now? Aside from order Kreacher to do things he can’t do and then have him punish himself for it when I’m not looking.”  
  
“Er. Well. That’s essentially it.” He cleared his throat. “Sometimes I go dance with the furniture, if I’m over-caffeinated.”  
  
“The murderous chairs, you mean?”  
  
“They don’t try to murder me. And they let me lead. Pansy always had problems with that.”  
  
“Don’t ask me to dance,” Luna said. “For your bribe. Unless you enjoy having your feet trodden on.”  
  
He made a sympathetic noise. “Nargles trip you up?”  
  
“No. They don’t like the loud music. I’m just clumsy.”  
  
He rolled his eyes. “God, you are lunatic.”  
  
“So you tell me several times a day.”  
  
She watched as he finished going about his business, buttering and toasting and slathering with jam. It wasn’t until he was about to take his first bite that he realized he’d been moving the beat of a song she was humming. Come to think of it, she hummed rather a lot. He thought it sounded pretty.  
  
“Sing me something.”  
  
She stared, confused but never clueless as he had once assumed. “Why?”  
  
“I think you have a good voice,” he posited.  
  
“Based on?”  
  
“You hum all the time.”  
  
She narrowed her eyes. “Your line of reasoning is extremely flawed.”  
  
He took a bad-tempered bite out of his toast. “Sometimes I wish they’d given me a Hufflepuff babysitter.” He paused. “No. No, I don’t. Take it back. Anyway, I don’t care if it’s flawed. I want to hear you sing. If you do, I’ll help you, but just for today.”  
  
She still seemed a bit taken aback by his sudden request, but although Luna’s eyes seemed constantly widened in shock, she didn’t surprise like most people. “Any requests?”  
  
“Whatever you were humming before.”  
  
“Are you sure? It’s Muggle.”  
  
“Doesn’t matter,” he mumbled around his toast, a little surprised that he didn’t think it did. He’d heard some Muggle music from Malcolm while he was in Hogwarts, and he hadn’t altogether hated it. “Sing it.”  
  
She shrugged. Then she opened her mouth.  
  
He very nearly dropped his toast on the counter. He’d been expecting a mildly pleasant soprano voice, breathy but not grating. Nothing special. As it turned out, he was right about the soprano and little else. Her voice seemed to soar in the cramped kitchen, flying to the heights of the scale with an ease Celestina Warbeck – who was a mezzo on a good day – would salivate over. But despite the high notes, her voice remained full-bodied and strong. Her tone was clear and bright. He imagined she was singing starlight.  
  
“Is it a kind of dream,  
Floating out on the tide,  
Following the river of death downstream?  
Oh, is it a dream?  
  
“There's a fog along the horizon,  
A strange glow in the sky,  
And nobody seems to know where you go,  
And what does it mean?  
Oh, is it a dream?  
  
“Bright eyes,  
Burning like fire.  
Bright eyes,  
How can you close and fail  
How can the light that burned so brightly  
Suddenly burn so pale?  
Bright eyes.  
  
“Is it a kind of shadow,  
Reaching into the night,  
Wandering over the hills unseen,  
Or is it a dream?  
  
“There's a high wind in the trees,  
A cold sound in the air,  
And nobody ever knows when you go,  
And where do you start,  
Oh, into the dark.  
  
“Bright eyes,  
burning like fire.  
Bright eyes,  
how can you close and fail  
How can the light that burned so brightly  
Suddenly burn so pale?  
Bright eyes.”  
  
When she was finished, she looked at him expectantly. He realized that she wanted his assessment.  
  
“I was right,” he murmured. “You do have a nice voice.”  
  
She beamed at this praise. “Thank you. I normally get yelled at when I hum or sing in Ravenclaw tower. Always disturbing someone, you see.” She suddenly hooked elbows with him. “Come on then.”  
  
He stared at their conjoined limbs as if one of her invisible creatures had appeared above them. “What?”  
  
“You promised.”  
  
Crap. He had. “Fine. But just this once.”  
  
She smiled at him again and said, “Do you know what I think?”  
  
“Thankfully, no.”  
  
“You’re starting to be friends too.” She slipped from his grasp and practically skipped into the Black’s library, filled to the brim with books she hoped would hold the secret to releasing the precious Potter.  
  
“I’m getting used to you,” Draco called out after her. “That’s all.”  
  
He told himself this every day following that, when he asked her to sing him a song for his help.  
  


* * *

  
“I was wondering when you’d call me here,” Hermione called out as she stepped into Dumbledore’s office.  
  
The Headmaster turned slowly, as if his bones were no longer pliable enough for the movement. Hermione narrowed her eyes, seeing lines she had not noticed before and a more pronounced stoop in his shoulder. She knew Dumbledore was very old, but he seemed to be aging all the more rapidly this year. She wondered if his black hand or Harry was to blame.  
  
“Ms. Granger,” Dumbledore murmured, his voice creaking like rotting wood. “If you expected I would want to see you, why did you not simply come yourself?”  
  
“I wouldn’t presume to impose upon you, Professor,” Hermione said smoothly. “Besides, I’ve been busy.”  
  
He frowned. “Not with your schoolwork.”  
  
Hermione winced, the familiar pang erupting in her chest. This was brought to her so often by concerned Gryffindors, fretting professors, and salivating Ravenclaws thrilled at the chance to finally overtake her. Once upon a time, she would have risen to their challenges. Once upon a time, she wouldn’t even be in this position.  
  
“There are more important things,” Hermione answered, though it still left a sour taste in her mouth.  
  
Dumbledore looked down his nose at her. She thought his eyes seemed dull. “You’re a student, Ms. Granger. This shouldn’t be left up to you. There are others who have been—"  
  
“And they have made about as much progress as I have,” Hermione interrupted sharply. “Which is to say, none. Not to mention, sir, that Harry is a student too. It doesn’t preclude who he is and what he’s meant to do.” She swallowed and struggled to keep her voice even. “Ron’s… Ron was also a student. It didn’t stop you from going to him for a favor that he died for.”  
  
Dumbledore closed his eyes, hanging his head. “So he told you about that.”  
  
“I worked out most of it myself,” she said, forcing air through her constricting throat. “Just as I’ve worked out that you didn’t call me here to talk about my marks or my mental health. You want something from me.”  
  
Dumbledore swayed on his feet. She may as well have actually struck him. “Ms. Granger—"  
  
“Please, spare me, Professor,” Hermione hissed. She kept her back painfully straight as if to exert her power through her physicality. She would never have presumed to think she might be able to defeat this man a year before. She never would have thought to give it any consideration. But she was no longer the child who looked at Dumbledore with shining eyes, sure that he would protect them all. He had failed her, and she would not let him forget it simply because of his frailty.  
  
“I know you sent Ron to his death. I know you drove Harry half-mad staying away from him during Fifth Year, and that meant he didn’t go to you when he should have, and we lost him and Sirius. And I rather suspect you knew what Draco Malfoy was doing long before you told us. Katie Bell may never recover. Ron definitely won’t. And though I will never give up hope, I may never be able to work out how to bring Harry home. So do not offer me excuses or platitudes or promises. Tell me what you need, and then I will decide whether or not I want to help you.”  
  
And so he told her about the Horcruxes, though she knew most of it. He showed her the relevant memories of Merope Gaunt and the origins of the Dark Lord in Tom Riddle. And then he asked her if she would go with him to retrieve the locket. He asked her to help him destroy another part of Voldemort’s soul.  
  
She said yes, but only because Harry and Ron would have told her to.  
  


* * *

  
“Do you suppose Dumbledore knows about the veil?” Harry asked loudly, blocking out the whispers that carried dark suspicions to his heart.  
  
Sirius smiled, shoving his hands in his pockets. “It’s possible. When I was a kid, I was convinced Dumbledore knew everything. Always caught your dad and me during pranks, you see.”  
  
Harry clung to that image of a youthful Sirius and James, perhaps accompanied by Remus without scars and even Peter before the resentments took hold. He saw them laughing and falling over one another, heedless of the future that awaited them, of a road paved with skulls and snakes.  
  
“Then maybe Remus and Tonks and the others are waiting for him,” Harry suggested. “Once they’re through with the Death Eaters, he’ll be able to work it out. If he already knows so much about it.”  
  
Sirius looked set to agree with him, but in that brief hesitation, the voices rose.  
  
“Maybe not, Harry,” Sirius murmured, his voice cloaked in shadow. “There are some things that even Albus Dumbledore fears.”  
  
“Death?” Harry asked, incredulous. “He told me that death was the next great adventure.”  
  
Sirius shook his head. “I’m not talking about death.” He looked out to the grey distance, his eyes unfocused on a horizon they could not chase. In that moment, he seemed to move beyond where Harry could go, beyond places he could fathom. And all the while, a million souls pleaded.  
  
“I’m talking about the dead.”  
  


* * *

  
Draco awoke to the sound of slamming doors and running footsteps. He yanked his wand from underneath his pillow and pointed it in the dark, gasping air for fear of running out of it. He listened for a few moments, and determined there was only one person moving about the house. He relaxed, though only slightly, and rose from the bed, staggering into the hallway and the blinding light that poured from Luna’s room.  
  
She ran about like a harried rabbit, her blond hair floating around her head like a dust cloud. She hopped around yanking her shoe on while attempting to simultaneously fasten her skirt. Draco was thankful caution had kept him in bed for modesty’s sake.  
  
“What has possessed you to make such a bloody racket at this hour?” Draco grumbled.  
  
“It’s Hogwarts,” Luna said, her voice groggy from being roused from bed herself. “It’s under attack.”  
  
It felt like a thousand needles were driven into his spine. He might no longer be in danger, but his friends were still at the castle. “But they’re in Slytherin,” he muttered. “Surely they’re safe.”  
  
“I don’t know,” Luna said, apparently having heard. “Draco, it was Neville who called me, and he said…”  
  
Draco felt the needles twisting, driving in deeper. “Luna. Tell me.”  
  
“He said there’s a werewolf with them. I think it’s Greyback.”  
  
Draco grabbed the doorframe to keep from hitting the floor. Any other Death Eater would have respected the boundaries of Slytherin House. Even with in-fighting, even with the possibility of weeding out the few half-bloods or Mudbloods in the house, they would have left the dungeons alone for fear of accidentally harming someone’s child. But if Greyback was there, he wouldn’t care. He’d tear apart all the children in the world for his pleasure, and he wouldn’t care who their fathers were.  
  
“Pansy,” Draco whispered in horror. “Crabbe, Goyle… Oh, shit. Fuck! What is he doing there? What are any of them doing there?” Rage suddenly threatened to bubble up and overwhelm his fear. “They told me the castle was safe as long as I left! They said that no one would get in!”  
  
Luna ran forward, pressing her palm to his face. “Draco, I know. I know what they said. But Neville told me that somehow they’ve managed it, and what’s worse, Dumbledore’s not there.”  
  
Draco trembled. He hated Dumbledore, but he respected him all the same. As long as Dumbledore was at Hogwarts, the students were safe. He could protect them. But if he wasn’t there, then all bets were off.  
  
“Bloody old idiot!” Draco hissed, slamming his fist against the wall. “How could he leave them?”  
  
“He thought there was no danger,” she reminded him. Her other hand came up to hold his face. “Draco, listen, I know this is hard for you to process, but I need to go now.”  
  
Draco stared at her, uncomprehending as usual. Go? What did she mean go? Where did she have to be at this time of night?  
  
It took some time for his sleep-addled mind to go through all the information he had been given. When he arrived at the only possible conclusion, he grabbed onto her wrists, wishing they were hooks like that pirate in the children’s story Luna had told him about. “No.”  
  
She slipped out of his grip. It was like trying to hold onto water and light. “I have to. They need my help.”  
  
“You can’t,” he insisted wildly as she pushed past him. “Please, you can’t go.”  
  
She turned, raising both eyebrows. “Why not?”  
  
Anyone else would have petulantly maintained that it was none of his business and that he couldn’t order them about. Even now, Luna was different. She gave him the opportunity to give her a good reason to stay.  
  
He didn’t have one.  
  
“You just can’t,” Draco snapped.  
  
Luna gave him a look that edged dangerously close to pity before she turned to descend the stairs. “I’ll be all right.”  
  
“You don’t know that!” Draco shouted, running after her. “You can’t predict the future, Loony. Don’t lie and say you can.”  
  
“I never meant to imply that,” she said, pulling her rucksack from the banister and rummaging through it. She yanked out a blue hair ribbon and started to pull her hair back. “I just assume that there are one of two outcomes: I’ll either live or die. I know we can both agree that surviving is the best ending, but if I don’t, I know there’s something else for me.”  
  
Draco reeled at her glib attitude, but he decided now was not the time to appeal to reason on that front. “And what if you’re hurt? Or if they capture you? Or if Fenrir….” He pictured the last in his mind – dirty fingernails slicing through her pearlescent skin, crimson slipping from the wounds as his teeth tore at her neck, and her eyes, forever widened in that look of surprise. “Luna, you can’t.”  
  
She blinked as she finished tying the ribbon. “You said my name.”  
  
He clenched his hands into fists and suddenly remembered that he still had his wand. “I won’t let you.”  
  
She smiled sadly. “It’s not up to you.” She turned to leave him.  
  
“ _Petrificus Totalus!_ ”  
  
Luna’s body seemed to snap to attention once the spell landed. Her joints locked so hard he thought her bones might break. Then she began to fall forward. He dashed to her, grabbing her around the waist and pulling her back. Unfortunately, he overcompensated in strength and then neglected to remember that she had no control over herself. They both toppled backwards and his head hit the floor hard with her added weight.  
  
He felt dizzy, and it took him awhile to refocus his eyes. When he did, all he could see was the crown of Luna’s head resting against his chest. It might have made a pretty picture, aesthetically. Then he readjusted, levering himself up so that he could see her eyes. There was nothing attractive about her fury. Seeing it on her face repulsed him; she was not a girl who should have ever been angry. It didn’t suit her. He found himself hating that he’d made her look that way.  
  
“I’m not sorry,” he murmured, wrapping an arm around her. “I know that’s what I’m meant to say, but I’m not. Even if I was, I’m crap at apologies.”  
  
He squeezed his eyes shut. “I told you before that I’ve been getting used to you. I wasn’t saying that to be patronizing…. I meant it. I’ve gotten accustomed to waking up and going downstairs, knowing you’re going to be eating breakfast and reading your  _Quibbler_. I know that every time I yell at Kreacher, you’re going to be there a few minutes later to try and make him feel better… though you do tend to make it worse, you know. He rather likes it when I yell at him. I like watching you read all those books in the library and write back to Hermione to tell her what you’ve found. I even like it when you bounce your ridiculous theories off me, because mad as they are, there’s a logic to them that I can almost perceive. I like hearing you hum. I like that you’ll sing to me when I ask. I like the little sketches you make on the margins of your notes. I like that you can at look me in spite of everything I am. I like that you don’t hate me after everything I’ve done. I like that I can see a second chance for me in your eyes. Hell, maybe I’m even beginning to like you.  
  
“Either way… you’re all I have left,” he whispered, holding on to her tighter. “My father’s in jail, and I don’t think he’s ever coming out. My mother’s…. God knows where that old man put her, and I don’t know when I’ll get the chance to see her again. My friends are at Hogwarts, and I know they’re in danger just being there. But even though we’ve been together for years, I don’t know if they can forgive me for not doing as I was told.  
  
“People are wrong about Slytherins. We’re not all Death Eaters. We’re not all children of Death Eaters. But the ones who matter to me are. And I don’t know who’ll come first: me or their parents. I don’t want to know for that matter.”  
  
Draco took a long, shuddering breath. “And frankly, Luna Lovegood, that leaves you. Just you. And depressing as that may be, I’ll be damned if I’m going to risk losing you just because you’re a better person than I am.  
  
“That’s all I wanted to say. I’ll put you to sleep now.” He lifted up his wand, pointing it between those furious eyes. “Can’t stand to look at you anymore.”  
  


* * *

  
“Avada Kedavra!”  
  
A jet of green light shot from the end of Snape’s wand and hit Dumbledore squarely in the chest. Hermione’s scream of horror never left her: silent and unmoving, she was forced to watch as Dumbledore was blasted into the air. For a split second, he seemed to hang suspended beneath the shining skull, and then he fell slowly backward, like a great rag doll, over the battlements and out of sight.  
  
Hermione gaped at the empty space Dumbledore had once occupied from underneath Harry’s invisibility cloak. The Headmaster had insisted she bring it; Ron had kept the cloak when Harry disappeared, and she had taken it for herself once Ron didn’t need it anymore. He’d forced her underneath it while they flew to the castle after seeing the Dark Mark. He’d immobilized her once the Death Eaters crashed through the doors that led back down to the castle proper. And now she couldn’t even call out to him as he fell to Earth, struck down by a Killing Curse issued by none other than Severus Snape.  
  
“Out of here, quickly,” said Snape, turning away with a flourish of his midnight cloak. She stared at his retreating back, opening her mouth to call out. It wasn’t until the last of the Death Eaters lumbered out of the door that she realized she had moved. She knew only one thing could have broken Dumbledore’s spell, but she had no time to mourn.  
  
Seizing her wand and throwing the cloak off her body, she shot out the first of what she suspected would be a great number of spells. “ _Stupefy_!”  
  
The Death Eater fell, and Hermione chased after the rest. She knew better than to expect that they wouldn’t leave a trail of blood in their wake. She had no idea what they had done before she and Dumbledore returned; there may have already been too much carnage for her to mend. But she could do everything in her power to prevent any more.  
  
She raced down the stairs, her chest immediately aching with effort. She cursed her lack of athletic prowess and leapt down the last three, emerging into the battle. Her eyes sought out some touch point, some ally to watch so that she could make sense of it all. But the first thing she saw was a flash of red hair, being crushed beneath the full weight of a man who seemed less human than any she had ever seen. Something about him made her remember the sound of Remus Lupin howling into the night three years earlier.  
  
For a desperate moment, she thought it was Ron and thought she was going to be ill. Then she saw the ponytail and remembered the guard Dumbledore had set around the castle and that the Order had been on high alert. Hermione ran to him, wand raised. “Bill!”  
  
“NO!” a familiar shriek cut through the night like a serrated blade. Hermione turned to see another streak of red flying through the air. Ginny landed on Fenrir’s back, pummeling him with her fists. She was still clutching a broken wand in her hand. “You promised! You said you’d leave them alone if I helped you!”  
  
With a great roar, the wolf-man pulled Ginny off and slammed her against the wall. Then he fell upon her, and Ginny screamed as he took a chunk of flesh from her cheek.  
  
“ _Impedimenta_!” Hermione cried out, sending the man flying away into an opposite wall. Ginny slipped to the floor, her tears smearing the impossible amount of blood on her face. She crawled over to her oldest brother, reaching forward to shake him awake.  
  
Hermione knew it was useless. His carotid artery had been cut. Bill Weasley was dead.  
  
Just like Ron.  
  
Hermione let out a cry of rage and ran forward, catching sight of Snape’s cloak billowing behind him as he ran. She passed McGonagall, Lupin, and Tonks each dueling with a separate Death Eater. She passed Neville barely dodging a Cruciatus Curse and then falling upon his opponent with a boar-like cry. She passed a group of bewildered Hufflepuffs led by Ernie Macmillian, who tried to ask her what was going on. She paid none of them any mind, chasing after Snape because she was the only one who knew. He’d betrayed them. All those times she’d thought Harry was holding a grudge. All those times she’d scolded Ron for being unfair to a man who, while insufferable, was brilliant. All those times she’d told herself that if Dumbledore trusted him so implicitly, surely that must mean something. That man had turned tail and killed a man while he pleaded for life.  
  
She had to catch him, though she didn’t know what she’d do once she did.  
  
She burst outside of the castle, unsurprised to find there were still more wizards dueling in the courtyard. She followed Snape’s harried footsteps, pushing herself to her limits. She choked on each breath she swallowed, she nearly stumbled, and there were times she didn’t think she could go on, but she did. She knew she had to catch him before he got beyond the gates; if he did, he could Disapparate, and then there’d be no catching him.  
  
“ _Stupefy_!” she shouted, watching as the jet of red light shot past his head. She’d missed. But he stopped all the same, turned to face her with his familiar doleful expression.  
  
“Funny,” he snarled, “this doesn’t seem like a part you should play.”  
  
“How could you?” Hermione asked, surprised to find she was crying. She’d sworn to herself she would never cry for the Headmaster who had betrayed her, but she’d expected him to die defeating Voldemort. She hadn’t expected to watch him drink that horrible stuff at the cave, hadn’t expected to see him weak and begging her to kill him, hadn’t expected to feel sorry for him and to have someone as low as Snape do him in. “He trusted you! Harry never did, but Dumbledore always told us we could trust you!”  
  
Snape curled his lips horribly. “Do you think I care what your little Potter said? He was a fool to go running before he knew where he was going.”  
  
“I know that!” Hermione screamed at him. “I know he’s an idiot, but I don’t care. He’s my best friend, and… and I hated Dumbledore for what happened to Ron, but he didn’t deserve what you did to him. He didn’t deserve to be betrayed!”  
  
Snape seemed to soften a fraction, and for a moment, Hermione thought he almost looked… disappointed. “Cleverest witch of your age. I do wonder sometimes.”  
  
Hermione tightened her grip on her wand. “What is that supposed to mean?”  
  
“Maybe you’ll be smart enough to figure it out one of these days,” Snape said scornfully. “Until then, I’m going.”  
  
She raised her wand. “ _Pet_ —"  
  
He deflected with a flick of his wand. “Sorry, Ms. Granger. Your mind is open as Potter’s ever was. You’ll never be able to win a duel against me.”  
  
Knowing he was right, Hermione threw her wand down. “Fine. Then just kill me. Harry’s gone. Ron’s dead. You’ve just murdered our last hope for defeating Voldemort.” She clutched at her aching chest, gripping the fabric just above her heart, and a hole in the fabric. “I’m Muggle-born! What do I have to live for now except to die? What!”  
  
The way he looked at her made her think that maybe he had an answer for her. Then she saw his eyes widen in fear at something behind her.  
  
“Ava—"  
  
She whirled at the unfamiliar voice and for a split second, saw a Death Eater charging her, his wand pointed directly at her chest.  
  
She knew she should dodge, but she couldn’t make her feet move. She knew she had to live on to save Harry and because Ron would have wanted to. But that intellectual assurance could not seem to override the shock or terror that left her rooted in place.  
  
Suddenly, something hit her from behind that carried her away from the scene. She twisted and spun before she crashed to the ground. Then everything went dark.  
  
She came to some time later in Hagrid’s arms. He didn’t believe her when she told him about Dumbledore. Then she had to listen to him cry when he did believe. She told everyone what she’d seen, what she knew, where they’d been before. Remus Lupin pulled the locket from Dumbledore’s robes and read the note aloud. It wasn’t Slytherin’s. They’d left Hogwarts vulnerable for nothing. Dumbledore and Bill Weasley had died for nothing.  
  
She’d lived through it, but no one could tell her if it was worth it.  
  


* * *

  
Luna and McGonagall had left Draco in the Headmaster’s – well, he supposed Headmistress’s – office while Luna went down to the infirmary ward to check on her friends. She hadn’t spoken a word to him since he brought her around. He had waited until Neville contacted Luna again via the coin to ask her why she hadn’t come. Then he’d ended the spell and followed Luna out the door. Together, they had journeyed to Hogwarts. It wasn’t the smartest of moves, but he felt it was unlikely death would visit the castle again any time soon.  
  
Draco looked up at the wall littered with portraits of past headmasters and headmistresses, his eyes immediately falling on that of Albus Dumbledore. He was surprised to find that the old man was not sleeping. It was his understanding that most new portraits were borderline narcoleptic to make the transition easier. But there he was, eyes twinkling and smiling that ever so irritating smile.  
  
Draco stood and crossed to the opposite wall. “I cannot even begin to tell you how annoying you are.”  
  
“Oh?” Dumbledore asked.  
  
Draco arched an eyebrow. Apparently new portraits were not stunning conversationalists. “Would you like me to try?”  
  
Dumbledore simply kept smiling.  
  
He scoffed, folding his arms. “No sense in it. You wouldn’t understand me anyway.”  
  
“I’m a portrait, Mr. Malfoy,” Dumbledore reasoned. “I’m not touched.”  
  
Draco laughed sharply. “Please. You were always more than touched.”  
  
“Well, no sense trying to change your opinion,” Dumbledore said. “Do you know, I won’t be able to change any of my opinions now? I’m not even really alive. I’m just an imprint.” He frowned. “I think when I was alive, I didn’t want to be a portrait.”  
  
Seeing his earlier assumption about the portrait’s speaking abilities were wrong, Draco wished he could somehow gag it. “After listening to my Great Aunt Wally shriek every time Luna comes in with the groceries, I’m also not seeing the appeal.”  
  
Dumbledore chuckled. Draco found this version of Dumbledore far more amiable than the one he had dealt with in life. “The girl who left you here seemed a bit upset with you.”  
  
Draco frowned. Apparently, he didn’t recognize Luna. “We had been getting on.” He paused. “She sang to me when I asked her.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“Nice voice.”  
  
“Splendid!” Dumbledore smiled like a stupid child.  
  
Draco looked away, unable to handle the disparity between the Machiavellian headmaster of memory and this cheap imitation. “She’s rather cross with me now.”  
  
“Why? Did you say something racist? I remember you were somewhat known for that.”  
  
Draco’s eye twitched. How did the portrait remember him and not Luna? “She’s more or less able to tune that out. She’s angry with me because I… kept her from coming last night. When you… well.”  
  
“Ah,” Dumbledore said, catching the drift. “I see.”  
  
“She wanted to come,” Draco murmured bitterly. “She wanted to be a bloody hero, get herself killed like some sort of…  _Gryffindor._ ”  
  
Dumbledore tutted at him. “Now, now. That was my house.”  
  
“I know,” Draco drawled.  
  
Dumbledore made a ‘harrumph’ noise, which made him sound like most of the other portraits Draco had dealt with in his life. The familiarity was a relief. “Well. What gave you the right to stop her?”  
  
“I didn’t have it,” he said, pushing off the wall. “I just took it.”  
  
“Not a wise move there, Mr. Malfoy.”  
  
Draco shrugged. “She’s alive. That’s wise enough for me.”  
  
Just then, the door to the office opened and in walked none other than Luna Lovegood. She was still looking at him with those horrible eyes, the ones he couldn’t stand. They were someone else’s eyes, not hers. He started to duck his head so that he wouldn’t have to see, but then she seemed too tired to uphold her anger. It drained away, leaving nothing but exhaustion and sadness.  
  
“Well?” he asked. She’d promised a full report.  
  
“It was Ginny,” Luna murmured, leaning against the door and then sinking to the ground. She hugged her knees to her chest. “Ginny let them in.”  
  
“Shit,” Draco said with feeling. He slowly moved towards her, allowing her plenty of opportunity to send him away if she didn’t want him. “Why would she do that?”  
  
Luna took a deep breath, pressing her forehead to her kneecaps. “She was threatened. Fenrir Greyback found her alone during Easter Break. She was sneaking out to meet some boy probably… and he asked if she missed Ron. He wanted to know if she’d be just as sad about losing her other brothers.”  
  
Draco had always believed the Weasleys had too many children, but it was hardly a problem that could be fixed retroactively. “But didn’t… didn’t I see—"  
  
“Bill Weasley’s body?” Luna finished, although Draco’d had no idea which Weasley it was, and not just because his face had been unrecognizable. “Yes. Fenrir killed him.”  
  
Draco sank to his knees before her, the cold truth settling in the pit of his stomach. “It didn’t matter. They promised, but it didn’t matter.”  
  
Luna looked up at him. She looked sorry. “Did you really think it would?”  
  
“I had to,” he muttered, hanging his head. “So did she.”  
  
Luna nodded, and then continued. “Ginny saw him attacking Bill. He’d just finished mauling the neck. She jumped on him, and now her face is ruined.”  
  
Draco winced. He’d heard stories of maimed children Fenrir had gotten his hands on. The wounds were cursed and never healed. Ginny Weasley would be marked forever for her crime. “How did she do it? It wasn’t… the cabinet, did she—"  
  
“No,” Luna assured him. “I think that was destroyed when we left. Nobody knows how she did it yet.” She took a moment and swallowed. “You see, when she woke up, she knew what she’d done. Sometimes you wake up and for a minute you forget or you think it was a dream. She didn’t. She knew. She ran into Madame Pomfrey’s office and just… started swallowing potions.”  
  
“Fuck,” Draco whispered, reaching for her. He paused, his hand hovering over hers. He didn’t know if this was allowed, and Luna didn’t seem to notice his movement.  
  
“Tonks stopped her, dragged her out. She’s on her way to St. Mungo’s now. They think she’ll be all right. But she’ll probably be committed or imprisoned. Azkaban has a psychiatric ward, you know.” She looked up and saw Draco’s hand hanging in their air. He was shocked when she took it. “Thank you.”  
  
“I’m still not sorry,” Draco told her. “After hearing all this, I’m not sorry.”  
  
Luna nodded. “I didn’t expect you to be. I know you think you did the right thing.”  
  
He raised an eyebrow. “But?”  
  
“You were wrong.” The coldness in her voice felt like ice cracking underfoot. “It wasn’t your decision to make.”  
  
“I know,” he acquiesced. “I just don’t care.”  
  
Luna looked as if there was more she wanted to say, but knowing that it was useless, decided against it. “I told them what I knew about Snape,” Luna continued, her voice not quite thawing. “Hermione saw it happen. She says Dumbledore was pleading with Snape at the end. She assumed it was for his life; now she’s not sure.”  
  
Draco narrowed his eyes, casting a look over his shoulder. Dumbledore’s portrait was now fast asleep. “He wanted to die?”  
  
“Maybe,” Luna said, apparently following his gaze. “I don’t suppose we can ask him?”  
  
Draco shook his head. “He’ll only know a fragment of whatever Dumbledore knew at the time that was painted, which was probably years ago.” He paused, smirking. “Remembered me though. Said I have a tendency to be racist.”  
  
“Are you sure he didn’t mean your father?”  
  
Draco paled. “Oh. Hadn’t thought of that. He didn’t know who you were…. He must have thought I was my father.”  
  
Luna gave his hand an extra squeeze, and he thought it was to do with Lucius until he heard her speak. “Draco, there’s something I need to tell you.”  
  
He turned back, knowing this was not the lead in to a conversation he would enjoy. “What?”  
  
“Hermione and I spoke for awhile,” Luna began, her blue eyes wide and looking close to normal. “She told me that Dumbledore had shown her memories about Tom Riddle – the man Voldemort used to be. It led him to believe that Voldemort’s made Horcruxes for himself. Do you know what those are?”  
  
“Not a word flung about the manor, sorry to say.”  
  
Luna shrugged. “I thought maybe since it turns out a book your father gave Ginny was probably one.”  
  
Draco frowned. “A book my… what?”  
  
“I’ll explain later,” Luna said, plowing on. “Anyway, Horcruxes are objects containing a fragment of your soul. Every time Voldemort killed, he tore his soul, and he placed the piece into an object. Dumbledore and Hermione were going after a locket. It turned out to be gone already, but… Dumbledore told her what he thinks the other ones are. We don’t know an exact number, but he’s made a few guesses, and his guesses tend to be correct.”  
  
Draco was now very sure he would not like where this ended. “And?”  
  
“She needs help, Draco,” Luna said, taking his hand into both of hers. “I know that Ron was worried about her when Harry first disappeared. She was so focused on finding a way to get him back that she barely slept. But after Ron and now this… Draco, I think she’s on the verge of breaking. She’s not well. She’s also determined to see this through to the end because it’s what Harry and Ron would have done. I can’t let her go alone.”  
  
Realization spread through Draco like paper set aflame. “No.”  
  
“As we have already established with last night’s events and this morning’s fallout, that is not your decision to make.”  
  
“You can’t!” he snapped, knowing how ridiculous he sounded and refusing to care. “Someone else can go.”  
  
“Who?” Luna demanded, her voice sounding both distant and fierce, a combination that left him ill at ease. “Ginny’s going to be locked up for what she did, even if they did force her into it. And Neville needs to stay here.” She held up a hand when Draco started to protest. “Draco, if it hadn’t been for him, more people would have died last night. Hermione warned him something might happen, so he was watching out. He saw the Dark Mark. He grabbed the 7th Year Gryffindors and Seamus and Dean and they all fought last night. People listen to Neville now. They follow him. And if they choose to leave the school open next year, he has to stay here and protect them.  
  
“That leaves me. I’m all that’s left.”  
  
Draco felt his hand curling into a fist in her grip. “If that is all the friends Granger has, then I am almost sorry for her. Also, are there not adults in this world who can do these things?”  
  
“She always thought it would be Harry, Ron, and her,” Luna said. “She thought they were going to save the world together. She’s going to do it again for as long as she can, and I can’t let her go alone.”  
  
Draco’s mind felt poised to fly apart. He had to stop her of course. Draco couldn’t miss the irony of Luna Lovegood being worried about someone else’s sanity. The idea of letting the two of them go off alone was paramount to madness in and of itself. He was going to have to stop her. Maybe he could get rid of Hermione somehow – without her, Luna wouldn’t know where to go. Or perhaps if he just petrified them both and kept them locked up at Grimmauld, it would be enough. Or maybe until he could come up with a better plan. Hell, he could use Imperius to hold them. They’d thank him one day when they realized it had all been to save their lives.  
  
Draco was pulled from his reverie by the door opening again. He pulled Luna forward to keep her from tumbling back, and both of them rose to their feet in tandem. They turned to see Headmistress McGonagall standing there. Her face had been drawn and pale ever since Draco had laid eyes on her, but there was something different in her gaze now. Something that was directed at him and only him.  
  
He stumbled backwards. It could only be one thing. He had only one thing left to lose. “No.”  
  
“Mr. Malfoy—"  
  
“No!” he shouted, pointing at McGonagall. “No, they told me she’d be safe! They told me they were sending her far away, where no one could get to her!”  
  
McGonagall clenched her jaw. “I know what they told you, Mr. Malfoy, but I’m afraid—"  
  
“I don’t believe you,” he hissed, covering his ears. “They told me! They promised!”  
  
“I’m sorry, Mr. Malfoy. I’m so sorry.” McGonagall looked at him with disgusting sympathy, her voice only slightly muffled by his hands. “They’re dead. Your parents are both dead.”  
  
Draco let out a horrible sound and rushed at her. To his surprise, Luna intercepted, throwing her arms around his neck and dragging him down with her weight. He tried to yank her off or set her aside, but she may as well have used a spell to lock her arms around him. Finally, he stopped trying to remove her and just held on, burying his face in her shoulder. He dimly heard McGonagall offer one last condolence before she left them.  
  
Draco whimpered once she shut the door on them again, and Luna brushed her fingers against the back of his neck, muttering soothing sounds into his ear. He couldn’t say how long he stood there, leaning against Luna as if he could not hold himself up without her. He couldn’t tell time by the tears he shed for his parents or for the way she hummed Simon and Garfunkel over and over again. He could only think that it must have taken him days to stop crying, and even then, it didn’t seem like enough.  
  
“I was wrong,” he murmured hoarsely.  
  
She tried to shush him. “Don’t worry about it now.”  
  
“I didn’t mean that,” he said, extricating himself. “I thought… I said you were the only one left when I stopped you before. But you weren’t.  
  
“You are now. And I’m not letting you go alone.”  
  
She blinked so much more slowly than other people. “What are you saying?”  
  
He leaned forward and pressed his lips against her eyes, praying they would never show him such cold rage again.  
  
“I’m saying Granger’s going to hate it, but I’m coming with you.”


	5. Two Years Later

“Do you realize that we have been camping for  _two years?_ ”  
  
Luna quirked the corner of her mouth as she closed the flap of their tent with a flick of her wand. She stowed it in the back pocket of her denims and then tucked her hair behind her ears. “You have made a habit of pointing this out to me at every available opportunity, Draco.”  
  
He pillowed his arms beneath his head. “I just want you to be aware that we have been on this grand and noble quest for two years. Which has involved camping. On the ground. With bugs.”  
  
She shook her head and crouched down, stretching over him like a cat before settling on top of him, resting her scarred cheek against his chest. “Poor Draco and his arachnophobia.”  
  
“I am not  _afraid_  of the bugs. I hate them. And nature in general really.”  
  
She patted his cheek. “When this is all over, there will be beds.”  
  
He waggled his eyebrows. “Oh?”  
  
“I assumed you knew. I was thinking about becoming a naturalist once all this was over, but I’m not much for camping anymore either.”  
  
“…I was attempting at innuendo.”  
  
“Oh, did you waggle your eyebrows at me? I’m sorry, I wasn’t looking.”  
  
“Well, I won’t waste my seduction efforts on you then,” he sniffed.  
  
“I am sorry,” she repeated, sighing. “It’s just so exhausting taking care of her.”  
  
Draco reached up and laid his hand against her back. He stroked up and down her spine, feeling knots and tension that even Luna’s daily meditations couldn’t soothe away. “She’s getting worse, isn’t she?”  
  
“People used to say I was mad,” she said, as if he needed reminding of her old nickname. “I don’t think they would have said that if they looked into her eyes.”  
  
Draco twirled his fingers into Luna’s hair, winding a familiar curl around his fingers. “Wish I could help.”  
  
Luna shook her head. “She hates you.”  
  
“I had got that impression. When she told me she hated me as a matter of fact, back when I first told her I was coming with you.”  
  
“Well,” Luna said, lifting her head and her feet, crossing her ankles, “you were responsible for what happened to Ron. And you’re the only one left to blame since Dumbledore died. I suppose there’s the Death Eaters as well, but since you’re marked, that’s still you in a way.”  
  
“Has it ever occurred to you that it’s very rude to bring up one’s past indiscretions?” he groused.  
  
She brushed her fingers against his cheek. “I’ve forgiven you a million times over by now. But Hermione’s different. She loved him.”  
  
“Yeah,” Draco muttered. “Hard to imagine anyone loving that hair.”  
  
Luna pinched his neck. “That’s not nice.”  
  
“You’re nice enough for the both of us,” Draco insisted, tugging at another curl.  
  
She tilted her head to the side thoughtfully. “I’ve been thinking lately that it was a mistake bringing you along. For her sake at least. You’re a constant reminder of what’s happened. You know she hasn’t dealt with it, even though it’s been almost three years.”  
  
“I’ve always thought that it was bad for her that I was here,” Draco said nonchalantly. “I just didn’t care. You needed me.”  
  
“I needed you specifically, or the fate of the quest rested on you?” She said this with a smirk of all things, a facial expression that she’d gleaned from Draco. It was disturbingly reminiscent of looking in a mirror from some angles.  
  
Draco sat up slightly, somewhat put off. “Need I remind you that I was responsible for getting the Hufflepuff cup from Bellatrix’s vault? What with my being the only surviving heir and all.”  
  
Luna had to acquiesce to this. “It was nice not to have to break in. I would not have wanted to go against that dragon.”  
  
“For that matter, who uses a dragon to guard money?” Draco asked, repeating a conversation they had had so many times before. “One little spell, and that bugger’d be free, terrorizing all of Diagon Alley.”  
  
“Your aunt was insane,” Luna pointed out.  
  
“This is true.”  
  
“And,” Luna continued, poking him in the chest, “don’t act as if you’ve been the only useful one. I saw the silver doe. I found the Sword of Gryffindor.”  
  
Draco looked over to his right, glaring at the gleaming metal blade with its inset rubies. “A sword. Of course Godric had a sword. Bloody Gryffindors.”  
  
“It got rid of the Horcruxes.”  
  
“But it’s still so… Gryffindor.” Draco turned up his nose in disgust.  
  
“There’s nothing wrong with Gryffindor.”  
  
He snorted. “Something wrong with  _our_  Gryffindor.”  
  
Luna couldn’t deny that. “She’s fine as long as we keep her away from the books. It’s when she gets obsessive that she’s a problem. It’s worse that we’ve barely done anything for six months.”  
  
“I wouldn’t call trying to kill Nagini nothing,” Draco muttered crossly. “She tried to eat me.”  
  
“She still could,” Luna pointed out. Then a shadow crossed over her face, her head hanging low. “And I still don’t know where we could find Rowena Ravenclaw’s lost diadem. This is assuming that he even made a Horcrux out of a Ravenclaw artifact, and that there aren’t more out there that Dumbledore didn’t guess at.”  
  
“Hey now,” Draco muttered, brushing her fallen hair behind her ear. “I’ve told you. The fact that it’s your house doesn’t make it your responsibility. Besides, you left at the end of your Fifth Year. Maybe you’re not even considered a Ravenclaw anymore. I think you were the first to ever drop out; probably a cardinal sin for you people.”  
  
She smiled at him fully. He loved her smile so much. “See? You can be nice.”  
  
“Only to you.”  
  
She began to say something, and Draco decided that he didn’t want to have any more of this conversation. He caught her lips with his own, kissing her into silence. He loved that she was better than him, but he didn’t always love that she wanted him to catch up. And surprisingly enough, he loved that she wanted to save the world and save the friends she had in it. But he didn’t want to think about their failures, the Horcruxes that still remained, the battles he didn’t want to fight, Hermione’s fading intellect, and the dead. He didn’t want to think about the Boy-Who-Didn’t-Live anymore. All he wanted was her.  
  
They pulled apart, their breath ragged and fast. “You asked me before if you needed more or if the quest did.” He gripped the back of her neck as though it were a lifeline. “I never thought you needed me, Luna Lovegood. I want you to know that.”  
  
She kissed him again, and he couldn’t help but smile against her lips. He loved kissing her, perhaps more than was healthy. It was just so easy to forget the world outside with his lips against hers and his tongue in her mouth. Feeling her body press against his, he could forget about the war. He could forget that they were losing. He could forget everything but her skin beneath his hands and the quiet noises she made against his mouth.  
  
Her teeth sank into his bottom lip and blood flowed into his mouth. She kissed him, and the pain didn’t go away until she pulled away and whispered ‘Episkey.’ Then she dipped her head, her teeth raked his neck, and it began all over again.  
  
Draco sometimes wondered what her friends from school would say if they knew this side of her.  _Luna Lovegood? Are you sure? Haven’t you just corrupted her like we always knew you would?_  
  
How wrong they’d be. To be honest, he was not overly fond of this aspect of their coupling, but for her, he endured it. He did a lot of things for her.  
  
“Episkey,” she said, closing the wound on his neck. He wound his hand into her hair and pulled her back to his lips, bruising where she makes him bleed. He pushed his hands beneath her jumper, smoothing his hands over her back. Her skin felt mostly soft, but there were lines of more fragile skin: the scars that battles left behind. He had his share, but not as many as she did. It was only natural. She was braver than he was.  
  
She moved away to pull her jumper over her head, and he found himself marveling that he had gotten himself involved with the kind of girl who didn’t bother with brassieres. Then she vanished his shirt, and he was more or less preoccupied by the feeling of her breasts pressing against his bare skin.  
  
“Don’t forget to bring that back,” he scolded mildly. “I’m fond of that shirt.”  
  
“You’re fond of all your shirts,” she teased, circling one nipple with her fingernail.  
  
He nipped at her earlobe. “I have excellent taste.”  
  
“I’m sensing a veiled compliment.” She paused. “And a little something else.”  
  
 _“Little?”_  
  
He took a page from her book, vanishing all of their clothes below the waist. He grabbed her by the hips and pushed into her, smirking with some satisfaction at her blissful sigh. “Does that feel little to you?”  
  
Her eyes sparkled like ignited sapphires. “I’m always satisfied.” She braced her hands against his chest and began to move above him, slowly at first, dragging a low groan from the back of his throat. She kept her rhythm steady, moving to the beat of music only she could hear. She mewed softly, one hand snaking up her flat stomach to cup her own breast.  
  
And the music in her mind abruptly changed, the tempo increasing. Draco’s fingernails paled as he tightened his grasp on her hips, moaning as she thrust faster and harder. He would happily let her ride him into oblivion, fucking him until he went blind. But he knew her well enough by now. Luna liked to be in control to start, but at some point, she always relinquished. She stood at the center of their lives, holding them together with an eccentric hand, a feather-soft voice, and Godric’s sword. If she held on to control of this one thing, she’d get wound up too tight. Her eyes had already lost so much of their dreamy haze. He couldn’t bear to let anymore escape.  
  
He flipped her onto her back, grinning as she wrapped her legs around his waist. He thrust into her, hard, catching her mouth and swallowing her cry. She bit his lip again, tugging, but he didn’t bleed. He kept pushing into her, driving her towards the proverbial edge. Her eyelashes fluttered against her cheek and a pink flush dotted across her white skin.  
  
Draco pulled her arms away from his neck, pinning them to the ground with one hand. He trailed the other over her skin, down her clean forearms and following the curve of her ribcage. Then he drew it up, over the same breast she’d fondled. He tweaked the still-hard nipple, and her hips bucked beneath his weight. She began to cry out with each thrust, something in between a sigh and a whistle. He listened to the pitch, waited until the notes began to ascend up the scale. This is how he knew she was close.  
  
Then he wrapped one hand around her throat, squeezing lightly.  
  
This, he’d never enjoyed. He had no idea how Luna had even gotten the idea. She’d suggested it once on a lark, and he’d agreed because he was drunk and a horny teenage boy. All he’d thought about was settling between her thighs and being inside. He hadn’t thought of what it would be like to choke her. He never did it so hard that she couldn’t breathe at all, just enough so that some of her airway was blocked.  
  
At first, she’d said it just made it more intense, but there were other things she wanted to try. Luna was always an adventurous lover. So they’d gone through the rest of her list, and once they’d gone through that, they’d landed on this again. He hadn’t done it right away, but after awhile, it seemed that she couldn’t come without it. So he did it for her. Always for her.  
  
It wasn’t that he didn’t like the look of it, how easily it could seem like he was killing her. He knew it was all to do with trust, and he liked that she trusted him this much and more. He didn’t like it because the one time they’d switched, it had seemed so much like he was dying. He never asked her if she felt the same way. He didn’t want to know the answer.  
  
She always said she didn’t mind the idea of dying. Was this her little flirtation with death? Her  _danse macabre_? Did he make her more and more comfortable with dying every time his hand closed around her neck?  
  
She didn’t mind dying, and he supposed he could endure that. Maybe he even preferred it to the alternative of her always being afraid like he was. But he hated the thought of her leaving him.  
  
Her breath wheezed out of her open mouth with each thrust. Her hips continued to move beneath him, her back arching into a pale rainbow. Finally, with a burst of wandless magic, he felt a tiny wind tunnel swirl around his hands. This was her version of a safe word.  
  
He let go of her neck, and she gasped, gulping in oxygen and letting it out with a loud cry. She trembled beneath him, her body rocking endlessly. She grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled, dragging her other hand down his back. He felt her nails cut into his spine, and then his skin seal together again with her whispered spells. He kept thrusting into her, letting her ride out her orgasm for as long as she could, and then finally, he came.  
  
He could never finish with his hand on her throat.  
  
He let out a final grunt and then collapsed above her, falling into a kiss and drinking her taste in like a fine blackberry wine. Then they went through their usual post-coital ritual. He kissed her eyes, first right then left, all but worshipping his favorite part of hers. And she grabbed his wrist and pulled his marked arm to her lips, kissing the clean skin just above the Dark Mark. His reminder that she didn’t care about his past, that she’d forgiven him, and that maybe she loved him in spite of it.  
  


* * *

  
Harry narrowed his eyes. It had never occurred to him that Dumbledore would have people he cared about and lost. Family even. He’d always pictured Dumbledore as the wise old man who knew everything there was to know. The idea that Dumbledore had ever been young was such an alien concept that it left Harry dizzy.  
  
“What makes you think he’s afraid of the dead?” Harry asked, swinging his gaze around.  
  
It took him approximately three seconds to realize that Sirius wasn’t actually talking about Dumbledore.  
  
Sirius shivered against a cold that Harry could not feel, wrapping his arms around himself like a shield. He started to sink to the ground. Harry ran forward, holding him up. “Sirius? Sirius, what’s wrong?”  
  
“We’re trapped, and the whispers are all around,” Sirius hissed, covering his ears. “It’s just like before. Just like Azkaban.”  
  
Harry felt his heart beating against his ribcage like a lead weight. “Sirius—"  
  
“I heard your mum and dad, you know,” Sirius said, his hair falling in front of his face. “I told you knowing I was innocent kept me sane. It did. It didn’t change the fact that sometimes I heard them.”  
  
Harry had never felt so completely out of his depth. “It’s all right, Sirius.”  
  
“I heard them asking me why I didn’t save them,” Sirius growled, his fingers pushing into his scalp. “I got there as fast as I could once I knew what Pete had done. But I wasn’t fast enough. They were already dead. The house gone. All that was left was you and the rubble.”  
  
“They don’t blame you,” Harry whispered fiercely, giving Sirius a little shake. “Did you hear me? They don’t.”  
  
Sirius shook his head. “You’re wrong, Harry. You didn’t know them… and the dead do blame. Don’t you hear what they’re saying to us when it goes quiet? They all blame us. For daring to be alive.”  
  
For the moment, Harry didn’t know what to say, giving the voices the opportunity to rise. He listened, unable to make out a single word, but he caught whiff of darkness. He’d assumed that they were safe in this world. Now he wasn’t so sure.  
  
“Don’t worry, Sirius,” Harry murmured. “They’ll get us out soon. I know they will.”  
  


* * *

  
They woke up the next morning to Hermione poking her head through their now open tent flat. Draco covered up his waist despite his grogginess out of habit. Luna seemed to have no such inhibitions. He had to resist the urge not to flip her hair over her shoulders.  
  
“Hermione,” Luna murmured, bleary-eyed. “You’re soaked.”  
  
“It’s raining,” Hermione answered, her hair plastered to her forehead in a mess of frizz and curls. To be perfectly honest, looking at her was becoming more and more of a chore. She’d dropped even more weight over the past year, and there was something unhinged and frightening in her eyes. He told himself over and over again that it in no way reminded him of pictures of his Aunt Bellatrix.  
  
Of course, it wasn’t just the look of her that unsettled him. He didn’t speak to Hermione much, but sometimes when he went out during the night, he could hear her in her private tent. Sometimes she was just muttering on about Horcruxes or the mission. But other times it almost sounded like she was having half of a conversation.  
  
But Draco groaned as if she didn’t concern him, “This is going to be a day of you pointing out the obvious to each other, isn’t it?”  
  
“Draco,” Luna murmured meaningfully. “Hermione, why didn’t you use a charm to keep yourself dry?”  
  
“I was in too much of a hurry,” Hermione said.  
  
Draco snorted. “That anxious to get a look at Luna’s breasts?”  
  
“No,” Hermione said, missing the joke. Two years ago she would have given him a scalding lecture for suggesting that. Then again, two years ago, they wouldn’t be in this position at all. “I was in a hurry because of the Patronus.”  
  
Luna and Draco were instantly wide awake. “What Patronus?”  
  
“The wolf.”  
  


* * *

  
Remus ran from his home just before the jinx hit the gas stove. It ignited, blowing the rickety building to bits. Fire bloomed like an angry red rose, thundering through the air above his head and burning all the oxygen up. Smoke made the already dark sky darker, and ash came down in the rain.  
  
Remus scrambled to his feet and sent a blind hex to his right, sighing in relief when he heard the howl of pain. He dashed towards the forest he had been using as his own private hunting grounds, wincing with every step.  
  
He didn’t know how they’d found him, but they planned their attack well. The full moon had only been a few days before. Remus hadn’t had access to the Wolfsbane potion for months now, and each transformation had been harder on his body. It was a miracle of adrenaline and survival instinct that he could move at all.  
  
He clutched his bad knee and limped as fast as he could. It was only because he stooped over so oddly that one spell flew over his head, giving him more time to flee into the solace of the forest. Even taking his condition into account, he knew the terrain, and hopefully, that would give him the advantage in a fight. Barring that, if he could hide out until help came, he could get out of this alive.  
  
It took twice as long now as it would have just a few days earlier, but he made it. He tore through the trees, immediately heading off the path and plunging into the dark.  
  
Once he did, he saw that he was not alone.  
  
Eyes more animal than humane. Grey hair coarse as a wolf’s. Yellow teeth and dirty nails. Canines glinting in a horrific smile and a tiny river of drool seeping out of the corner.  
  
“Hello there, Little Cub.”  
  
Remus did his best to stand at his full height, but his back didn’t quite allow it. “Fenrir. You found me.”  
  
Greyback chuckled, but it sounded like a growl. “I can always smell you, Lupin. No wards can erase the smell. I know my own.”  
  
“I was never yours,” Remus said, his voice dangerous as his wand flew to his hand.  
  
“Maybe not,” Fenrir said, licking his lips as a horrible growl rumbled deep in his chest. “But you’ll be my kill, Remus Lupin.”  
  
Remus didn’t know if this would be his very last fight, but if it was, he was almost glad. He was old beyond his years, and so very tired. His flight from his home had taken so much energy out of him. He could maybe hold Fenrir off for a little while, perhaps long enough for his call for help to be answered. But maybe he couldn’t.  
  
And if he couldn’t, maybe he’d see Harry and Sirius again. James and Lily. Ron and Bill Weasley. Dumbledore.  
  
When he thought of it like that, was dying really something to be afraid of?  
  
“Then come and get me, Greyback.”  
  
He didn’t think so.  
  


* * *

  
Luna, Draco, and Hermione each appeared behind a set of rocks in the clearing by Remus’s house. Luna looked on the burning wreckage that had once been his cottage with horror, and Draco, who had developed a grudging respect for the only decent Defense Professor he’d had, turned his face away. Hermione just stared into the flames.  
  
“He wasn’t inside,” she insisted.  
  
“How could you possibly know?” Draco asked, incredulous.  
  
Hermione turned to him, her brown eyes snapping as if blown by the heat. “He wasn’t inside.”  
  
Draco held up his hands, placating for the time being. “Whatever you say, Granger.”  
  
“We have to assume he’s alive,” Luna insisted. “I count seven in the open. There could be more in the trees.”  
  
“They’re waiting for us,” Draco pointed out reasonably. “You do realize that.”  
  
Luna shrugged. “It wouldn’t be the first trap we’ve run into.”  
  
“I know. And it’s amazing how my objections to doing so are continuously overridden.”  
  
“It’s Lupin,” Hermione cut off definitively. “We’re not leaving him.”  
  
Draco’s shoulder sagged. He knew when he was beat. “Fine. But if I die—"  
  
“You’re haunting us,” Luna said with irritating cheerfulness. “We know.”  
  
The girls burst out from behind their cover, momentarily leaving Draco behind. He scowled at their backs, muttering, “I don’t care for being mocked,” and then joined them in the fray.  
  
Much as Draco hated to admit it, there was something almost addictive about the rush a battle provided. He could hold himself apart enough to see reason, but he could see how some people (Gryffindors) could grow to love it, or perhaps be born with an inclination towards it. Running into danger, cutting down the enemy, and dancing away from spells that could gut him inside and out made him want to throw up when he thought about it later. But in the moment, it left him feeling more powerful than he was.  
  
“ _Protego_!” he shouted, blocking a barrage of hexes from the Death Eaters flanking his left.  
  
Luna, who had always been more than a little prodigious with silent spells, waved her wand at an advancing Death Eater. She picked him up in a whirlwind, depositing him in Remus’s fire-bombed house. She smiled eerily at the sound of the Death Eater’s screams as the flames consumed him, fueled by the air in her spell.  
  
“ _Descendo_!” Draco called out, bringing down one of the flaming walls on top of another man, flattening him instantly.  
  
He saw Luna twirl in his peripheral vision and then felt her back slam into his. She deflected one spell, and then threw in one of her own. “ _Incendio_!”  
  
The smell of burning flesh was now filling his nostrils, but Draco kept fighting, his back all but fused to Luna’s. They moved in tandem, hurling spells at their opponents with well-honed skill. It occurred to Draco that they were too young to be so good at this. He remembered that it hadn’t been that long ago that he’d been told to kill someone and tried his best to do it from afar, so he wouldn’t have to look. Now he saw it all the time, even with his eyes closed.  
  
Finally, the last of the Death Eaters fell, and he was still standing. He hadn’t even been hit, since he’d made Shield Charms something of his specialty. He looked over his shoulder at Luna. “You all right?”  
  
She cradled her arm, but nodded. “Stinging Hex, but I’m fine otherwise.”  
  
“Still, better have Granger look at that. You know I’m crap at healing spells.”  
  
It was then that they realized there had only been two sets of spells fighting off the Death Eaters.  
  
“Shit,” Draco swore with venom. He looked around frantically, counting the bodies, searching for one with bushy hair and an unpleasant disposition. If any corpse could still have a disposition, it would be Hermione Granger. “Do you see her?”  
  
“No,” Luna answered, calling out from beside Lupin’s still smoldering home. “She’s not here. We didn’t hit her.”  
  
“Then where the hell did she go?”  
  


* * *

  
Hermione didn’t consider herself an expert on Remus Lupin. The men who had been closest to him were long gone in one way or another. However, she thought she understood the wolf mentality well enough, and try as Remus might, there would always be something lupine about his reasoning. An animal when cornered fights back no matter how injured. But a human with animal instincts who was not the target of a particular assault would go to ground where his attackers could not follow with ease.  
  
This is what led Hermione to the trees. She simply turned away from the fight Luna and Draco charged into and walked calmly into the forest grove. No one even seemed to notice her. She preferred it that way.  
  
She studied the branches and the twigs crushed underfoot when she reached the woods, examining the tell-tale signs of a man in flight. She tracked the markers just as Hagrid would have told her to do, taking advantage of the relative calm of the atmosphere. Apparently there were no Death Eaters hidden behind tree trunks today. This wasn’t surprising. It wasn’t as if anyone really cared about Remus. They were all after Draco and Luna nowadays.  
  
Not her. No one had been after her for a long time. She was part of a triumvirate no one believed in anymore, left hanging on to a duo who hadn’t needed her for a long time. They all thought she was too dim to understand that now, all because she was still looking for Harry. All because she still had faith in his return.  
  
No one understood her anymore. No one believed in the importance of her work. No one thought a sane person would still continue to chase after Harry Potter, their fallen Chosen one.  
  
They thought she was crazy. She heard Luna and Draco talking at night. She caught their fervent glances toward her when she was hard at work for a solution. They thought she didn’t notice. But she did.  
  
The only thing she didn’t understand was how wanting Harry back was crazy. How was it mad to want your friend to save the world? How was that wrong?  
  
It wasn’t. She knew it wasn’t.  
  
It was mad of everyone else to have given up on him.  
  
Hermione banked left among the trees, searching for Remus Lupin. She would find him, take him by the hand, and lead him back to the field. Luna and Draco would have taken care of it by now. Luna the Sword and Draco the Shield. Everything would be safe and sound. Maybe Remus’s house wouldn’t be burning anymore.  
  
Then she saw something.  
  
The wolf-man, she remembered him, but it wasn’t the wolf-man she’d been looking for. Greyback. Lupin. Fenrir. Remus and Romulus and the birth of Rome. He was on top, crushing with his weight and tearing with the points of his yellow teeth. His face was smeared with offal and the ground was watered with red. Twigs and leaves and dirt swirled in it, and she thought she saw the bugs drowning in it. Muddy blood. Mudblood.  
  
This had happened before. She’d seen this before, but not here. Where had she seen it? Why was it so familiar to see Fenrir Greyback crushing a corpse beneath him, feasting on the entrails?  
  
She remembered him. She remembered hearing him howl. She remembered Ginny screaming. She remembered the body twitching beneath him, pale freckled skin shining like a ghost against the castle floor. Red hair spread out beneath it.  
  
“Ron?”  
  
Ron didn’t answer her. Ron couldn’t anymore. Ron was gone, she knew that. Sometimes Draco or Luna or someone else would tell her, as if she needed reminding. Of course she knew he was gone. Why did that mean she had to stop talking to him? It’s not as though she expected him to talk back.  
  
Ron didn’t answer her, but the wolf-man did. Not the right one though. Greyback. Fenrir. Child-slayer. Man-eater. Monster.  
  
“And who’s this then?” he asked. “Little Red Riding Hood lost in the woods, looking for Grandmother Lupin?”  
  
Little Red Riding Hood. She didn’t think wizards knew about that. Little Red. But there wasn’t a little red. There was a lot of it. Fenrir Greyback ate Red. She’d seen it. She’d seen him do it. She’d seen him slice into the carotid with his teeth. She’d seen the blood spill out and stain the stairs. Then Ginny screamed and her face was ruined and she tried to kill herself because she thought it was her fault.  
  
But of course it wasn’t. That was crazy.  
  
“Would you care to join him?”  
  
It wasn’t Ginny’s fault. Little Red didn’t ask for the wolf to eat her brother. She’d tried to save him. She just hadn’t had anything to cut him out. The woodsman had an axe.  
  
Hermione had something better.  
  
“ _Sectumsempra_.”  
  
Fenrir’s chest all but split open, and he howled in pain, trying to hold his skin together. Hermione wondered if he could stitch it closed to keep the stuffing from spilling out like her mother had done for her teddy bears. Had she ever had a stuffed wolf? No. She didn’t think so.  
  
“That’s Snape’s spell!” Greyback snarled.  
  
Hermione failed to see what difference that had made. She’d seen him use it in fights before. And it was much faster than finding an axe to get Ron out of his stomach.  
  
“ _Sectumsempra_.”  
  
A slash across his abdomen.  
  
A wolf-man’s howl.  
  
“ _Sectumsempra_.”  
  
Something fell out of the hole she made in Fenrir’s stomach.  
  
It wasn’t Little Ron Riding Hood though.  
  
“Bitch!” Greyback shouted as he struggled to push the squelching red horror back inside. “I’ll… I’ll kill you.”  
  
Hermione chuckled. Silly little wolf-man.  
  
“ _Sectumsempra_.”  
  
The cut went across his neck, and his head tumbled to the ground. His body soon followed.  
  
It wasn’t any way to get Ron out of course. It’s not like he had gotten caught in Greyback’s throat.  
  
But she didn’t want to talk to the wolf anymore.  
  
“ _Sectumsempra_.”  
  


* * *

  
“Granger!” Draco shouted for what felt like the fifteenth time. He paused, waiting for her to answer, but all he heard was Luna’s own echoed ‘Hermione’ reverberating off the trees. They knew Hermione had gone into the forest, presumably to look for Lupin, but finding her inside was proving to be easier said than done.  
  
“Lupin!” Draco added for good measure. Luna had confirmed that the only body inside the house was the Death Eater she’d put there. But the fact that neither Hermione nor Remus answered their calls was beginning to put him on edge. The Lupin he remembered would have popped out the first time he called for Granger, then joked that he wasn’t who Draco was looking for and hoped that was all right. And then they would have found Granger wandering in the woods and she could have bounced a few of her theories off the werewolf, who would have politely told her they were good thoughts even though the logic was too whimsically convoluted for anyone but Hermione to follow.  
  
Draco sighed and rounded yet another corner in the grove. He opened his mouth to call for the missing wizard and witch, hoping that this time would be the last.  
  
But he when he rounded the corner, he didn’t call out at all. He didn’t need to. He’d found them.  
  
The first thing he saw was Remus Lupin’s brown eyes boring into him from the ground. Draco knew the man was dead before he saw the old professor’s ripped open stomach and the mauled neck. Draco clenched his jaw shut and thanked Circe that he hadn’t eaten any breakfast that morning.  
  
“ _Sectumsempra_.”  
  
He narrowed his eyes at the noise. He’d never heard Snape say the curse so calmly before. Then again, he’d also never heard Snape sound so like a woman either.  
  
And then he saw something that did make him retch, and he vomited up nothing but bile, brought to his knees by dry heaves and absolute horror. He saw Hermione kneeling before what he could only assume had once been a corpse. It was now little more than pulp.  
  
“Shit, Hermione,” Draco murmured, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “Fuck.”  
  
Hermione looked over her shoulder, and he fought the urge to be ill again. Her entire front was absolutely covered in blood. Her face was slick with it; it was dripping from her hair, staining her clothes. If he looked very closely, he thought he saw pieces of flesh hanging off her jumper. He stopped looking closely.  
  
“Who was that?” he wheezed. “Oh, Granger, what have you done?”  
  
“It’s Greyback of course,” Hermione said in her familiar matter-of-fact tone. “Didn’t you see his head?”  
  
Draco had not, and he had no interest in doing so. “Did he… did he do that to Lupin?”  
  
Hermione nodded. “He did. But it’s okay.”  
  
Glancing back at Lupin’s gutted corpse, Draco did not see how that was possible. “How?”  
  
“Well, I’m going to get him out of course.” She frowned. “It’s taking longer than I thought. I assumed I would have found him by now. And then Ron can’t be too far behind.”  
  
Draco’s felt a depression settle over him that he wouldn’t have expected. Luna had told him that Hermione was teetering, and it seemed that now she had gone over. Granger was hardly his favorite person, but even at his worst, he’d grudgingly admired her intellect. Now there was nothing left for him to like about her. He had absolutely no idea how to deal with crazy people, but he imagined it helped if you could feel more than dislike and dull pity. He wondered if Luna would know what to do.  
  
Remembering that they’d agreed to send up a signal when they found their quarry, Draco sent up a stream of red sparks. Hopefully Luna would be there soon.  
  
“Hermione, Ron’s dead,” Draco said.  
  
Hermione rolled her eyes. “Well, of course. I know that. You tell me often enough, don’t you? But it was Greyback who did it. So I have to cut him and Remus out of the stomach, and then they’ll be all right.”  
  
“Cut him… Oh, bollocks. Hermione… Ron’s not in there.”  
  
She froze. Draco was reminded of a cat stilling before it pounced. “What do you mean?”  
  
“Fenrir didn’t kill Ron,” Draco said carefully, deciding it might be best to follow her line of reasoning for the time being. It seemed like a good idea to humor crazy people. “Are you thinking of Bill? At Hogwarts two years ago?”  
  
Hermione frowned. “Bill?”  
  
“Yes, Fenrir killed Bill,” Draco repeated, slowly rising to his feet. “You saw it, didn’t you? And you’re just… you just got confused. I get it. Weasleys do look alike, don’t they? I still get them mixed up. Not that they have me around, mind, but… but Hermione, it was Bill. Not Ron.”  
  
She furrowed her brow. “Bill. Not Ron.”  
  
Draco felt the knot in his chest begin to relax. “Yes. That’s right, Granger. Bill.”  
  
“But then how did Ron die?”  
  
Draco immediately realized his mistake.  
  
Hermione’s eyes widened, white specks in a sea of red. He could picture her wheels turning, putting the pieces back together. She’d forgotten, but now she remembered, and he was all alone.  
  
Draco reached for his wand, but Hermione got hers on him too quickly. He immediately held up his hands in surrender. “Granger—"  
  
“You,” she said, comprehending at last. “You killed him.”  
  
“It was an accident,” Draco reminded her, clinging to this truth now as ever. “I didn’t mean it. I didn’t want Weasley to die.”  
  
Hermione started to get to her feet, shaking. “You poisoned him.”  
  
“He wasn’t supposed to drink it!” Draco raged. “It was Slughorn’s fault for not giving away the damned mead like he was supposed to. The tag said he was giving it to Dumbledore! If he’d just not been such a greedy little sod, they’d both still be alive.”  
  
“You put the potion in the drink,” Hermione accused. “You did it for Voldemort. You’re a Death Eater!”  
  
Draco glanced up at his forearm. His position currently had his Dark Mark exposed. Lovely. “Hermione, no. I’m on your side, remember? I helped you destroy Horcruxes. I have. I helped you. And I know you’ve never forgiven me because of what happened to Ron, and you don’t have to, but I’m sorry. I’m so sorry about what happened. I’ve never been sorrier about anything I’ve done. Please. You have to believe me.”  
  
“You. Killed. Ron,” Hermione hissed with hatred dripping from her voice like Fenrir’s blood.  
  
“I didn’t know you loved him!” Draco insisted. “I’m sorry!”  
  
“I wonder,” Hermione murmured, stalking towards him, “if I cut you open, will he fall out?”  
  
If there’d been anything in his bladder, he’d have pissed himself. “Hermione,  _please._ ”  
  
“ _Sectumsempra!_ ”  
  
“NO!”  
  
A weight barreled into Draco from behind, taking him down just before the curse would have hit. When he hit the ground, he saw little tuft’s of moon-white hair falling all around him. He turned to see Luna hovering above him, her ear bleeding and some of her hair cut away. He wanted to hold onto her in desperate gratitude, but her wand was drawn, and he knew there were more important things.  
  
“ _Expelliarmus!_ ”  
  
Hermione’s wand went flying out of her hand and into the branches. For some reason, this is all it took to break her. She started screaming over and over again, wordless shouts of agony ripping through his ears.  
  
Luna levered off him and ran to Hermione, heedless of the danger. She stepped over Lupin’s body and the pieces of Fenrir. Then she threw her arms around Hermione. Hermione beat on her back and tried to pull away, but Luna just kept holding on, making soothing noises and smoothing her hair, the strands wet with rainwater and blood.  
  
Eventually Hermione’s screams dissolved into weeping. Eventually Luna could not hold her up anymore, and they tumbled to the forest floor in a mess of blood and tears. Eventually Hermione started hugging her back.  
  
“I want Ron,” Hermione sobbed. “I want Harry. Why did they leave me? Why did they leave me all alone?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Luna answered. “I’m sorry; I don’t know. No one does.”  
  
Draco had always hated Harry. He’d always looked at Ron like a traitor. He’d always seen Granger as an affront to his safety and believes. But he was sorry Ron was dead, and now he felt sorry for Granger.  
  
And he hated Harry even more for it. He hated Harry for what this world had become.  
  


* * *

  
Once they had taken care of placing Hermione in St. Mungo’s and cleaned themselves up, Draco and Luna set about to cleaning up all of the papers and books she had accumulated over the past two years. Thanks to Hermione’s bottomless bag, this turned out to be more of a chore than even her two companions could have guessed.  
  
“She was a research hound,” Luna sighed, running her hands down the spines of a tall pile. “So married to her facts and figures.”  
  
Draco thumbed through a stack of her notes, amazed at her meticulous handwriting. He’d seen her scrawling away night after night, and had assumed that it would have been impossible to read based on her speed. But he could read it perfectly, though he wished he hadn’t.  
  
“We should have paid closer attention to her,” Draco murmured, bringing the bundle over to Luna. “Look. This is ten pages of one of the Sorting Hat’s songs over and over.”  
  
Luna plucked a random paper from his hands and scanned the page. “This is a list of the dead in order of when they died,” she said. “And then it looks like she drew up some kind of proof based on the probability that they’d meet up with Harry.”  
  
“Bloody hell….”  
  
“She factors in the date, location, closeness to Harry.” Luna sighed, pushing the paper back into his arms. “I can’t believe I never thought to look at these. I just assumed it was research. I didn’t realize that she’d gone so far over the edge.”  
  
Draco continued shuffling through the stack of papers in his hand. They seemed to be her more recent notes judging by how delusional they were. Occasionally, something about the Horcruxes or the veil came up, but more often than not, her thought process was taken over by nonsensical ramblings.  
  
“I never liked Granger,” he announced. “And she never liked me. But I never wanted to see her come to this.”  
  
“She’s the last of them,” Luna said as she sank onto a nearby tree stump. “She’s the last of the original three.”  
  
“There’s still you,” Draco reminded her. “And Neville, wherever he is.”  
  
Luna ran her hands down her face. “I’m going to have to tell him about this. Maybe he can help us find the other Horcruxes. Who knows? Maybe he can even kill Voldemort.”  
  
“Maybe,” Draco said, hoping she didn’t catch the whiff of doubt in his voice. Neville Longbottom had become something of a war hero over the past year, but Draco couldn’t help but see him as a clumsy boy forever chasing after a toad trying to escape him.  
  
“I think he could,” Luna maintained.  
  
“If you say so,” he said, wanting to avoid an argument. Then he reached a paper towards the bottom of the stack. Her notes seemed to be more lucid towards that end, but one word in particular caught his eye. “Portkey?”  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
Draco stared at the page, reading it over. Then he let all the other papers drop. “You’ve got to be shitting me.”  
  
“You’re not talking to me,” Luna said, rising to her feet. “I hate it when you talk to inanimate objects with me around. I feel left out of the conversation.”  
  
“Look at this,” Draco demanded, shoving it into her hands.  
  
Luna’s eyes ran over the page. She blinked, raised her eyebrows, and read it over again. Then she looked at him again. “She wanted to go through the veil and then Portkey out?”  
  
“Looks like that was the idea,” Draco said. “But look, she decided it was too dangerous. She said it was a last resort.”  
  
“Can things get any worse than they are now for the war?” Luna asked. “Voldemort’s all but declared victory, and half of the people who were fighting against him are dead or missing. I don’t see what else there is for us to do.”  
  
Draco couldn’t argue with that. “But could that work?”  
  
She shrugged. “I haven’t a clue. It’s not something I could work out without knowing more about the veil. Portkey magic is determinate on locations. Zeroing in on the destination is only half of it. It has to recognize where you are so that it knows how to guide you away. Whatever’s on the other side of the veil might not be something the Portkey could work with.” She paused, her eyes shining. “But it could.”  
  
Draco snorted, moving to pull the paper out of her hands. “Yeah, too bad no one will try it. No one would be mental enough to go through after what happened the last time.” He pulled.  
  
She refused to let go of the page.  
  
His stomach churned and the world seemed to spin away. He had meant to show her this as an amusement, even as reassurance that perhaps Hermione could regain the mind that had made her who she was. He hadn’t meant to give Luna any mad ideas. “Fuck, how could I have been so… You’re not considering this.”  
  
“Why not?” she asked. “You know how desperate things are.”  
  
“And that’s not going to be fixed by you running off into the unknown!” Draco snapped. “We’re supposed to be finding Horcruxes.”  
  
“But we’re not,” she insisted. “I don’t think it was ever something we were meant to do. Maybe we can’t find Ravenclaw’s or get Nagini because it was never our quest.”  
  
Draco groaned. “God, I hate when you talk about fate. Look, it doesn’t matter if Potter was meant to go riding off into the sunset with Granger and Weasley. Even if he were still around, he couldn’t do it now.”  
  
“You’re right,” she agreed. “There was no prophecy about who was meant to find them, but it did say that Harry was the one who had to kill Voldemort.”  
  
“I think it’s all bollocks,” Draco snapped. “You can’t go hinging the world on a crystal ball.”  
  
“But something has to change,” Luna insisted. “We’ve been stuck for months now. Voldemort’s still alive. People are still dying.” She shook her head fiercely. “I can’t let it go on anymore, Draco. I know you’re not like me. I know the faceless deaths don’t mean anything to you, but they do to me. And even though I know they’ve gone on to the next world, it’s not right. He shouldn’t be sending them there before their time.”  
  
“But why you?” Draco shouted, grabbing her shoulders. “Why does it always have to be you?”  
  
Luna looked at him with those eyes that he loved so much, the ones that had never shown him her rage other than that one day when he had stopped her from doing what she wanted. She looked at him and she smiled, as if that meant everything would be all right. He wanted to believe it. He did. But he couldn’t.  
  
“Because I’m not afraid,” she said softly, the wind lifting her hair away from her shoulders. “I don’t know if Hermione’s idea will work, but it’s the only one anyone’s ever had. You’re right. No one else would dare to walk through the veil after losing Harry… but I would. I know what’s on the other side of that veil is the world of the dead, and I am not afraid.”  
  
“And what about me?” he asked, his voice cracking. He cupped her face between his hands, holding on to her too tightly, as if this would keep her there. “I didn’t let you go to that first fight at Hogwarts. What makes you think I’ll let you go now?”  
  
She just kept smiling at him. “Because I’m a better witch than I used to be. You won’t get the drop on me again.”  
  
He knew this was true. He’d always been quick to learn spells, but when it came to fighting, Luna had always been better. He realized now it had nothing to do with loving it like a Gryffindor. It was just like she’d told him – she wasn’t afraid to die. Without that fear, she was free from restraint and hesitation. That made her one of the most powerful weapons in their struggle. He hated it more than he could articulate.  
  
“You know I love you,” he murmured. “Don’t you?”  
  
She widened her eyes. “You never said.”  
  
“Well, I do,” he hissed, pulling her forward into an embrace. “And you’re bloody stupid not to have known that.”  
  
She wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her lips into the hollow of his throat. “You never said… and you know I can’t let it change anything.”  
  
He held onto her more fiercely. “It should change everything.”  
  
“I know you want it to,” she said, burrowing her face into his chest. “But I can’t. It’s too important, Draco. Getting him back is so much bigger than you and me.”  
  
He swallowed his bitterness, hating that she was right. “Tell me something.”  
  
“Anything.”  
  
“Do you think it will work?”  
  
He felt her shake her head against him. “I don’t—"  
  
“I’m not asking for your intellectual opinion,” Draco said. “I know you usually give that to me because you think I like it more. But you have the best bloody intuition of anyone I’ve ever known. I’m asking you what that’s telling you. Think like Luna, not like Hermione.”  
  
She pulled away slightly so he could see her eyes. He’d never seen them look so certain. “It’ll work.”  
  
He took a very deep breath. “It had better.”  
  
She beamed. “You’ll let me go without trying to petrify me?”  
  
“Looks that way,” Draco muttered, sighing. “And also, I’m coming with you.”  
  
Her jaw fell open, and the surprised look that had slipped away over the past few years returned with a vengeance. He couldn’t help but chuckle at its reemergence even with the circumstances. Then she threw herself back at him, kissing him so fiercely that she bruised his lips.  
  
When they parted, there was only one thing to say.  
  
“I’ve told you before, Luna Lovegood, you’re all I have left in the world…. So you’re all I have left to die for.”  
  
“But you won’t,” she insisted. “I know it.”  
  
“How?”  
  
She reached up and tapped him on the top of his head. “Just have a little faith.”


	6. Through the Veil (Again)

Headmaster Severus Snape was working behind the desk in what had once been Albus Dumbledore’s office, when something blond and very angry suddenly appeared out of thin air. It was not often that Snape was surprised by anything, but one of the last and most significant acts of Narcissa Malfoy’s life had been teaching her son Occlumency. She had been quite proficient. Even Snape had not known of her talents.  
  
Draco had inherited more from his mother than her coloring.  
  
“What are you doing here, stupid boy?” Snape asked, leaning back in his chair and staring down the length of Draco’s wand. “Attacking me, are you?” He grinned. “We’re on the same side.”  
  
“Are we?” Draco asked, grinding his teeth. “That is what the Order finally decided. Remus Lupin spoke for you. Did you know he died?”  
  
Snape raised an eyebrow. “I have been told. Do you expect me to mourn him, Mr. Malfoy? Surely you know Lupin was no friend of mine.”  
  
Draco scoffed. “I’ve come to realize you have no friends, Prof…  _Headmaster_  Snape. You have tools. Pawns, if you prefer the chess metaphor.”  
  
Snape tented his fingers, never letting his eyes leave the tip of his former student’s wand. “Whatever could you mean?”  
  
“You and Dumbledore let me keep working back in my Sixth Year because you wanted to use me,” Draco hissed. “But it all backfired with Ron Weasley, didn’t it? No one was actually supposed to get hurt. You were supposed to watch out for that much, but you couldn’t keep an eye on me all the time. When Weasley and Slughorn died, you couldn’t use me like you wanted. Dumbledore wanted another spy. A marked, Pureblood spy who already knew Occlumency thanks to his mother.  
  
“But I wouldn’t do it. So instead, you both shuffled me into hiding with Luna, stashing my mother somewhere else. And you swore to me she’d be safe. You wouldn’t even tell me where she was, just to be sure.”  
  
Draco took another step forward, the tip of the wand just inches away from Snape’s nose. “And then my parents died. McGonagall told me she thought that it was because Voldemort wanted to show me how wrong I had been to betray him.  
  
“I don’t think that’s how it happened,” Draco said slowly, every word a hidden threat. “My father, yes. He died before the attack on Hogwarts, and no one but the Death Eaters could have gotten to him in Azkaban.  
  
“But my mother wasn’t killed until afterwards. After you fled. And supposedly, you and Dumbledore were the only ones who knew where she was.”  
  
Snape curled his lips. “What are you suggesting, Mr. Malfoy?”  
  
“That you killed my mother.”  
  
He shrugged. “What reason could I have had? You know I was fond of Narcissa.”  
  
“You killed her to force me into your bloody war!” Draco raged. “You killed her so that all I’d have left was a little Ravenclaw girl determined to help save the world! You must have known that Dumbledore was telling Hermione about the Horcruxes. You must have known she was going with him that night. And she told us that you’re the one who saved her life. You did that so she could tell the story, so that she could find the pieces of the Dark Lord’s soul and destroy them.  
  
“You knew she couldn’t go alone. You knew Luna would go.” Draco swallowed a lump forming in his throat. “And you hoped that I would follow her out of desperation.”  
  
Snape arched an eyebrow. “I am flattered that you think me such a master of espionage.”  
  
“No one survives as a double agent against Voldemort for this long without being that good.”  
  
“All right then,” Snape posited, leaning closer to Draco’s wand. “Let us entertain the idea that all of this is true. What have you come for, Draco Malfoy? Revenge? Would you really risk the lives of the students still under my care for that?”  
  
Draco nodded. “Oh, yes. I would.”  
  
Snape smirked. “Then why aren’t I already dead?”  
  
Draco’s wand trembled.  
  
“I know you’ve killed, Mr. Malfoy, so I do not think that your soul is too pure to do it,” Snape spat. “I think there are two options. One, you are not sure that I am the monster you have made me out to be. Or two… your lover asked you not to.”  
  
Draco flinched like a blow hitting home.  
  
Snape’s smile widened. “Ah, there it is. Amazing, Mr. Malfoy. You do so much for the sake of women that you love. You nearly killed yourself to save your mother, and now it seems you will follow Luna Lovegood into the realm of Death itself. You will not even take vengeance because she begged you not to.”  
  
“She didn’t beg,” Draco hissed. “But she said she didn’t want the children to suffer. If you leave, there’s no one to hold the Carrows back. Without you, things here would be worse than they already are.” He shuddered, clearly fighting the urge to turn away. “And I’ve heard how bad things are as it is.”  
  
“So I live to die another day,” Snape chuckled. “How nice for me.”  
  
Draco growled like a dog on the leash and nearly threw himself across the desk. Snape had to throw himself back so that the wand did not go into his eye socket. Draco drove it into his neck so hard that it was difficult to breathe. And for the first time, Snape was a little afraid of the boy.  
  
“But remember this, Headmaster,” Draco said, his voice frighteningly level. “Luna is sure that we’ll survive this trip into the afterlife. She’s even sure that we’ll bring back Potter, and against all reason, I almost believe her. And if I do come back, and Potter does save the world… if after all of that, you are still alive, I will find you. And I will make you bleed for taking my mother from me.”  
  
They remained in that position for a tense three seconds, easily the worst three seconds for Snape in recent memory. Then Draco pulled away. He picked up the broom that had served as his transportation and Potter’s damned invisibility cloak. Snape rubbed his neck and wheezed, “Foolish boy. Why would you tell me you’d kill me before you do it? That’s practically… Gryffindor.”  
  
Draco looked over his shoulder and gave Snape a chilling smile.  
  
“But you forget, sir, and after I just showed you too,” he said almost cheerfully. “You’ll never see me coming.”  
  
Draco mounted his broom and threw the cloak around his shoulders. Snape listened to him kick off and then disappear into the dimming afternoon light. When Draco was gone, and only then, did Snape allow his shoulders to stoop and his hands to quiver.  
  
“You were wrong about one thing, Draco,” Snape murmured, folding his hands as if in fervent prayer. “Lucius was mine as well.”  
  


* * *

  
Explosions resounded all around them as they ran through the Department of Mysteries. Flashes of light streaked by her eyes, sometimes singeing her hair, but miraculously never hitting her. Draco was running behind her, firing off jinxes and curses to hold back the advancing Death Eater swarm. Luna sent her own hex flying over his shoulder, shaking her head.  
  
“I wish you wouldn’t use Unforgivables,” she informed him smoothly.  
  
“ _Crucio!_ ” he shouted, pretending not to hear.  
  
“I understand they’re necessary on occasion,” she continued, twirling around him and deflecting a spell that had been aimed for his head. “But you use them when it’s not.”  
  
Draco shrugged. “I find them more effective.”  
  
“ _Reducto!_ ” Luna shouted, blowing one of the shelves that had once housed a thousand prophecies to bits. It sent the Death Eaters flying backwards. She turned and simply raised her eyebrows at Draco.  
  
He rolled his eyes. “Well, I don’t always have furniture to explode.”  
  
She grinned and grabbed his wrist, pulling him along. “This way!”  
  
She led him down the corridors, retracing her footsteps to the veil. To her surprise, she never took a wrong turn. She felt its presence as if they were connected. She ran along the invisible path as if running towards her destiny. And in a way, she supposed the veil was everyone’s destiny.  
  
Finally, they emerged in the empty room that held the veil and ground to a halt. She stood there with him, gulping in what could be the last oxygen she would ever taste. “Do you hear them?” she asked, closing her eyes. The whispers from beyond rose around her, pulling her forward. She could make out no words, but she knew they wanted her to come to them. She knew they wanted her to walk through. “Do you hear?”  
  
He tightened his grip on her hand. “Please don’t sound like that.”  
  
“Like what?”  
  
“Like you’re looking forward to it.”  
  
She opened her eyes, giving him a smile that she hoped was reassuring. “I don’t want to die, Draco.”  
  
“You better not,” he muttered. Suddenly, they heard a crash from behind. “They’re catching up.”  
  
“It’s all right,” she assured him, starting to walk forward. “They won’t follow us.”  
  
“Didn’t think they would.”  
  
They ascended the dais and then stopped just short of the veil’s threshold. Draco held her hand so tightly that there was actually reason for her to be concerned he might break a finger. She turned to him, smiling brightly. “Ready?”  
  
“One last thing,” he murmured, leaning forward.  
  
She held up a hand, pressing two fingers to his lips. “No.”  
  
He glared at her. “And why not?”  
  
“Because you’ll treat it like a last kiss,” she said. “And I don’t think it’s time for that yet.”  
  
Another bang sang out behind them, and a stripe of witch-light soared through the air.  
  
“Luna, if you’re wrong about this, I will haunt you forever,” Draco said darkly.  
  
“I’m not sure dead people can haunt other dead people.”  
  
“Oh, I will find a way.”  
  
She nodded. “I’m sure you will.”  
  
Then they took a deep breath, each praying it was not their last, and hand-in-hand, walked through the veil.  
  


* * *

  
Harry looked up from where he held on to Sirius and saw something moving in the distance. In the sea of grey, he saw splashes of color – blond hair, green jumper, blue skirt, red shoes. And if he saw color, he knew there had to be someone else alive in this dead world. Someone had come through the veil after them. They were getting out.  
  
“They’re here,” Harry whispered happily. “It’s all right now, Sirius. Someone’s hear.” He whistled as loud as could, just like Fred and George had taught him and waved his arms wildly. “Oi! Over here! We’re over here!”  
  
He heard a thrilled gasp, and the spots of color began to streak towards them, one faster than the other. Within moments, he recognized that Luna Lovegood of all people had crossed over to find him. He moved away from Sirius only to prevent him from getting trampled, and nearly fell over when Luna crashed into him, hugging him so tightly that he very well could have joined the dead.  
  
“I knew it!” Luna cried, kissing his face several times over. He didn’t want to know how red his face was. “I knew you were alive! I knew we’d find you!”  
  
“Against all odds, Potter keeps on breathing. I am both shocked and amazed.”  
  
Harry turned to the sound of the too familiar drawl, letting his mouth fall open. “ _Malfoy_? What are you doing here?”  
  
Draco’s expression was predictably full of disdain, but Harry caught something else lurking beneath the shadows of disgust. Draco turned to Sirius, holding out his hand. “You’re Black then. You were my mother’s cousin. So what? We’re seconds then?”  
  
“Yes,” Sirius muttered, with a bit of a snarl. He got up without taking Draco’s hand. “Although considering your Aunt sent me here, I’m not especially thrilled with the reunion.”  
  
“Oh, but she’s dead, so surely it’s all right now,” Luna said.  
  
Harry and Sirius both stared. “Bella’s dead?” Sirius asked incredulously.  
  
“Yes. Harry, did you know that werewolves can snap people’s necks with their bare hands?” Luna asked, her eyes bright and wide as ever.  
  
Sirius let out a bark of laughter. “Ha! Moony showed her.”  
  
“Luna,” Draco murmured, momentarily pulling her aside. “Don’t you notice something… odd?”  
  
“I notice something odd,” Harry spat. “You’re here. I think that’s plenty odd. What, did you come toddling after me like always? Decide to help your dad and your aunt kill me?”  
  
Luna opened her mouth to answer him, and then suddenly she was giving him a strange look. Though really, most of Luna’s looks were strange. “Oh. Oh, I see.”  
  
“You see what?” Harry asked impatiently. “Only weird thing I see is that you’re here with him. What are you friends now? When did that happen? He’s spent the whole year strutting about the school—"  
  
“Oh, I strut?” Draco interrupted. “How rich.”  
  
Luna shushed him. “Draco, not now.”  
  
“—torturing people!” Harry continued. “How can you be getting on with him now? And what the hell is he even doing here in the first place! Why didn’t Ron and Hermione come through? Or do they have to do something on the other side to get us out?”  
  
Draco and Luna exchanged an unreadable glance. Then they looked at Sirius, and when Harry looked at Sirius too, he saw his godfather’s face pale. It was like everyone else was sharing a secret, keeping it from him on purpose as if he were a child. He couldn’t stand it.  
  
“Look, I don’t even care,” he snapped. “I just want to get out of this place. What did Hermione figure out?”  
  
“Portkey,” Luna said, holding up a small black pouch.  
  
“Will that work?” Sirius asked incredulously.  
  
“No idea,” Draco admitted. “At the moment, I’m just thrilled that I wasn’t killed by curtains. Much as I hate to admit it, I agree with Potter.” He shuddered. “Merlin, that leaves a nasty taste in my mouth.”  
  
“Draco, do try to be civil.”  
  
“This is civil for me.”  
  
Luna sighed, but pressed on. “Well, I suppose we’d best be getting on. Everyone put a hand on me please.”  
  
“Above the waist,” Draco snapped, giving Harry an especially dark glare.  
  
Harry and Sirius each took an elbow, while Draco wrapped an arm around her shoulders from behind, confirming Harry’s worst suspicions. He swallowed his objections for the time being, deciding there would be time enough for that back home.  
  
“Now then,” Luna said, preparing to tip the Portkey into her hand, “as far as I can tell, there are one of three outcomes for this plan. Either we make it out, we’re stuck, or we’re taken to some alternate dimension of some kind.”  
  
“Very reassuring, love,” Draco grumbled. “Just try. If I’m going to haunt you, I’d like to get going on it as soon as possible.”  
  
Without another word or second of hesitation, Luna opened the pouch. A golden snitch tumbled out into her palm.  
  
Then something tugged at Harry’s bellybutton, and the dead world swirled away from him.  
  


* * *

  
They tumbled out of the air, every one of them hitting the ground gracelessly, as if they had been tossed out of the afterlife with disgust. Harry looked around at his new surroundings, blinking against the bright sunlight and color. He was surprised to find them outside. Why hadn’t they set the Portkey for the Ministry? And why on Earth had they chosen a campsite as their landing spot?  
  
All these questions tumbled out of Harry’s head when he heard Draco Malfoy give a positively joyous whoop. He spun to see Malfoy lift Luna off the ground and twirl her around. And Luna, traitor to Slytherin, just giggled and shouted along with him. Harry was about to tell them to shut it, when Draco silenced both of them by kissing Luna harder than any proper girl ought to be kissed.  
  
“Oh, disgusting,” Harry muttered, turning away sharply.  
  
“Must you ruin my moment, Potter?” Draco snapped.  
  
“I think you did that yourself,” Luna said lightly. “But I think that kiss is much better than the other one would have been. Even if you did cut it off.”  
  
Harry wanted to rip his ears off so that he wouldn’t have to hear them. “Jesus Christ. I don’t know when this bloody awful thing happened between the two of you, but I really don’t want to look at it anymore. Where are Ron and Hermione? And what have they said about this? And why the hell are we at a campsite, and all these papers…. Is this Hermione’s handwriting?”  
  
Luna snatched the paper out of his hands with surprisingly sharp reflexes. Then she folded her hands in front of her face, resting her fingers on her lips. He thought she looked sad, but he could never really be sure with Luna.  
  
“Harry,” she began, gently enough to make him nervous. “Harry, don’t you notice anything…. No, wait. You’ll just bring up Draco and I…. Oh! Harry. How tall am I?”  
  
Harry wished that this was the oddest thing she’d ever said to him. “Err… I don’t know? About the same height as I am?”  
  
“Yes!” she said, nodding. “Was I always?”  
  
“No, I don’t think you popped out of your mum that height,” Harry muttered.  
  
Draco snorted. “Brilliant observation, Potter.”  
  
Harry turned to say something scathing, when he realized what had been off about Malfoy. He was used to seeing Draco eye-to-eye, but now, Draco was looking  _down_  at him. “When did you get that tall?”  
  
“In the three and half years you’ve been gone, you stupid git,” Draco snapped.  
  
Luna whirled on him, but she didn’t glare. “Draco, I was attempting to ease him into it.”  
  
“It would have taken an age.”  
  
“Years?” Harry murmured, his brain refusing to grasp that. “But… that’s impossible. It’s only been a few minutes. Maybe an hour.”  
  
Luna reached forward and encircling his wrists with her fingers. “Harry, I don’t know what to tell you, but it’s been a very long time since you left. I suppose… time works differently where you were. You stopped aging, and it felt like a little while, but it wasn’t.”  
  
“Thank God it did,” Draco muttered. “Would have made you mental if it felt that long.”  
  
“Too right,” Sirius agreed. Harry realized for the first time that Sirius had never gotten to his feet. “It took me a moment, but I realized there was no way you two were Harry’s age…. But over three years?”  
  
“And Harry,” Luna said, her voice as soft as a feather, “a lot has changed in three years.”  
  
He’d thought he heard Ron’s voice on the other side.  
  
“Where are Ron and Hermione?” Harry demanded. “And Professor Lupin? Neville? Ginny? Luna, where is everyone else?”  
  
Luna looked over her shoulder at Draco, but Harry jerked on her arms. “Don’t look at him! Tell me what’s happened! I need to know.”  
  
Luna kept hesitating, but Draco said, “He does. He needs to know.”  
  
“Now?” she asked. “Right away?”  
  
“He asked.”  
  
Luna didn’t want to tell him. Harry knew that. He also knew that it had to be very bad if Luna, who was so adept at accidentally hurting others with her brutal honesty, didn’t want to say it. But she came through for him in the end, taking a deep breath and plunging ahead.  
  
“Bellatrix Lestrange was killed at the Department of Mysteries by Remus Lupin. He snapped her neck.  
  
“Lucius Malfoy and the other Death Eaters involved in the attack were caught and imprisoned in Azkaban.  
  
“Following the realization that Voldemort was back, Cornelius Fudge was deposed as the Minister of Magic. Rufus Scrimgeour took his place.”  
  
She paused again, her eyes shifting over to Draco. She didn’t continue until he gave her another, barely perceptible nod.  
  
“Katie Bell was attacked during a Hosmeade weekend, cursed and suspended in the air. She was committed to St. Mungo’s after she slipped into a coma. She never woke up.  
  
“Horace Slughorn, a new professor at Hogwarts, ingested a fatal poison and was killed.”  
  
She stopped again. Her grip on his wrists tightened.  
  
“Ron Weasley ingested a fatal poison and… was killed—"  
  
“No!”  
  
“—on the same day. It was his 17th birthday.”  
  
“No!” Harry repeated, trying to tear himself away. “No, you’re lying!”  
  
“Why would she tell you that if it wasn’t true, Potter?” Draco muttered.  
  
“You said you heard him, Harry,” Sirius added, reaching up to grasp his trembling arm. “I’m so sorry. But you said you heard him.”  
  
Tears pricked at Harry’s eyes. He had. He’d thought he heard Ron call him and thought that meant he was coming to save him. He’d told himself it had been in his head, but he’d always feared what it had really meant. Luna was telling the truth. She never lied.  
  
“Who did it?” Harry hissed, trying in vain not to cry. “I’ll kill them!”  
  
“It doesn’t matter,” Luna said softly.  
  
“Bloody hell it doesn’t—"  
  
“Harry, I’m not done.”  
  
He froze. How could she not be done? How had the world continued turning without Ron Weasley in it? Things had stopped for him in that ghost world. How had the real world not turned into an extension of Death when Ron Weasley left?  
  
“Should I go on?” Luna asked.  
  
Somehow, he worked up the courage to nod.  
  
And she continued to list the dead.  
  
“The Death Eaters invaded Hogwarts during what would have been your Sixth Year at Hogwarts,” Luna whispered. “Fenrir Greyback, an untransformed werewolf, attacked and killed Bill Weasley.”  
  
“Shit,” Sirius said, his hand slipping away from Harry’s arm. “Molly.”  
  
“And… that same night, Albus Dumbledore was murdered.”  
  
Sirius let out a low moan, curling into himself.  
  
Harry didn’t say anything. He didn’t know how to speak anymore.  
  
“Ginny Weasley was attacked by Fenrir Greyback when she tried to save her brother. She… confessed to allowing the Death Eaters in to Hogwarts, hoping to save her family. She was maimed, her face permanently disfigured. She attempted to commit suicide and was committed to St. Mungo’s until she could be transferred to Azkaban’s psychiatric ward.  
  
“Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy were killed the same night as the Hogwarts attack.  
  
“The Death Eaters took over the Ministry. Then they took over Hogwarts. And they kept killing.  
  
“Dean Thomas was kidnapped some months ago and killed for being a half-blood.  
  
“Kingsley Shacklebolt and Mad-Eye Moody were killed in a failed attempt to take back the Ministry.  
  
“Minerva McGonagall was killed defending her students from being tortured at Hogwarts School.  
  
“Parvati and Padma Patil, Cho Chang, Lavender Brown, Seamus Finnagin, Colin Creevy, Sybil Trelawney, Charity Burbage, Fleur Delacour, and Nymphadora Tonks, among others, are missing and presumed dead.”  
  
Luna’s eyes flicked over to Sirius. “Remus Lupin was killed by Fenrir Greyback during an attack on his home.”  
  
Sirius wasn’t moaning anymore. Harry thought he might have been crying.  
  
“Fenrir Greyback was killed by Hermione Granger in retaliation.” She stopped again, chewing on her lip, and then pressed on with the last of it. “Hermione spent all this time looking for you, Harry. Right after she got out of the infirmary, she went to the library to find a way to get you back. She searched for years, and… between that and losing Ron, she lost her mind. She’s been committed to St. Mungo’s.”  
  
Harry couldn’t take it anymore. His legs wouldn’t hold him up. He collapsed completely, slipping out of her grip and nearly taking her down with him. He held his knees to his chest and started to bury his face in his knees.  
  
Luna started to stoop to help him, but then Malfoy gently pushed her aside, pointing towards Sirius. Harry saw her wrap an arm around his stooped shoulders, rubbing his back and making soothing noises. He knew he’d be getting none of that from Draco.  
  
“Potter,” Malfoy began, crouching in front of him. “Potter, look at me.”  
  
Harry didn’t. He couldn’t.  
  
“Fine. Don’t then,” Malfoy muttered crossly. “Listen, I know you didn’t want this. I know you thought you’d come out of the veil and fall into a pile of Gryffindor hugs and everything would be the same as when you left it. I can’t imagine how it is to have everything taken from you like this. I won’t presume to say I do.  
  
“But this is what I know. We need you. We always needed you. The prophecy said that you had to kill Voldemort. And I know it doesn’t make any sense, but I have been doing everything in my power to try and do it without you. Luna and Hermione and I. We tried, and it drove Hermione mad. Remus died for it. Remus and so many others.  
  
“But Voldemort’s still out there. He’s still alive killing people and even if I understand why he’s doing it, I know it isn’t right. And if I know that, then you have to feel it in every inch of you. He can’t be allowed to do it anymore.  
  
“You’re supposed to save us, Potter.”  
  
Harry sat there, listening to the sounds of the woods and Sirius crying. Then he forced himself to raise his eyes to Draco’s grey ones. For once, he didn’t doubt Malfoy’s honesty. Draco really and truly believed that Harry was meant to save them. He’d brought them back to do it. He’d brought Harry back to become their savior. Their Chosen One. Their Jesus Christ.  
  
“You have to save us.”  
  
Harry blinked, letting twin tears fall down his cheeks, and he didn’t care that Malfoy saw. Then he said the only thing he could think to say.  
  
 _“How?”_  
  


* * *

  
Harry didn’t know it, but there were easy ways to answer this question. They could have told him about the Horcruxes. They could have mentioned the ones they’d destroyed, that they thought Nagini might be one, and that there might be a Ravenclaw item. They could have shown him the various plans of attack Neville and Luna had drawn up on the rare occasion they met to work out tactical strategies. There were things they could have said to answer his question.  
  
But they knew this was not what he was really asking. They knew he really meant,  _‘How can I do this alone?’_  Because even if they had managed to rescue Sirius, even if Neville, Luna, Draco, and a few others were still left to fight, it wasn’t who he needed. He needed Ron as his wingman and Hermione as his strategist. He needed Dumbledore to guide him. He needed things they could not give him.  
  
There was nothing they could say to make it better.  
  
And maybe there was nothing they could do to save the world.  
  
That night, Sirius changed into Padfoot and slept underneath the stars, warmed by his pelt and comforted with a duller, canine intellect. Draco and Luna retreated to their tent, and Harry listened as Luna cried and as Draco begged her to please stop because she’d never done so before and he didn’t know how to help her. And Harry laid down in Hermione’s tent, smelled Hermione all around him, ran his hands over the books her hands had caressed.  
  
And he wished that they’d never saved him.


End file.
